Intervals of Sanity
by Curiosity's Principle
Summary: Three people are dead & all evidence points to Sam Tyler.  Gene's turned against him & Sam can't seem to remember enough to give Gene reason to trust him.  How far will Sam go to find the truth?  And will he like what he finds when he gets it? no spoilers
1. Prologue

**Life on Mars: Intervals of Sanity**

Author's note: Well, I don't know about you, but I've been feeling very LoM deprived lately! My solution (since getting everyone from the LoM crew to make more episodes was out) was to write another story.

No spoilers for LoM and just a note: I try to keep the characters in character. I feel like I should note this because, as I look through fanfiction these days, I find that there are way too many people out there who change characters' personalities without reason or explanation. Majorly obvious things that if you watched the show at all, you'd know would never happen. There are stories that do the characters justice or at least attempt to, but there are for too many that just... mutilate them... Anyway, I didn't mean to write this as a rant, but as a place to let the readers know, that if my characters seem way _out_ of character, there's going to be an actual reason. Keep reading to find out. ^_^ If by the end you still think I'm off, let me know! I always appreciate suggestions to help improve my writing. Ok. Rant complete. Onward!

Plot: Three people are dead and all evidence points to Sam Tyler. Gene has turned against his DI and Sam can't seem to remember enough to give Gene reason to trust him. How far will Sam go to find the truth? And will he like what he finds when he gets it?

**Prologue**

"Well, what's wrong with him then?"

The doctor sighed, not particularly enjoying the gruff presence of the Detective Chief Inspector. The pair stood in a long white tiled hallway that smelled strongly of cleaning materials. The doctor lifted up his clipboard bearing his most recent patient's charts and adjusted his thick glasses on his sharp nose.

"As you know, Mr. Hunt, we haven't had much time to observe him since you had him brought in, but from what we can tell, he's a very disturbed individual."

"Plenty of people are disturbed, but that don't earn 'em a ticket here," Hunt replied.

"No, but when you're a paranoid schizophrenic with a-"

"I don't speak quack," Hunt interrupted rudely. "I got the paranoid bit."

God, he hated the police. Any authority figure really. They were all arrogant and as dumb as a box of nails. But they still came to him when they needed answers.

"It means, Mr. Hunt, that your DI isn't only paranoid, but he hears voices in his head and thinks that they come from people more real than you and me. He's also convinced that everything and everyone around him, save the voices of course, are figments of his imagination."

The doctor lifted his self important gaze from the charts to gauge the DCI's reaction to the news. There wasn't much of one. The bigger man's already narrowed eyes narrowed even further and his expression became hard as he looked towards the door to their side. It was behind there that the object of their discussion was being held. Other than that there was nothing. No denial, no accusations, nor concern for his DI.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice earlier, quite honestly," the doctor replied superciliously.

Gene Hunt snorted. "Oh, we knew he was off from day one, but we just thought it had to do with the accident. Figured the department in Hyde wouldn't send him if they'd thought he was a certifiable loon. Shows what they know. But Sam Tyler was a good copper, craziness and all. At least before he snapped anyway," Hunt replied, his tone changing from half amused to angry.

"Hm," was the doctor's curt reply. There was a brief pause and then Gene gave a loud sigh.

"Well! Since you can't tell me anything useful, I'll leave Tyler to you. Make sure he gets what he deserves."

The doctor blinked. There had been something sinister in the way Hunt had said that. "Excuse me?"

Hunt leaned took a half step towards the man and drew himself to his full height which towered over the doctor. "Get him better so I can put him away forever," Hunt replied, speaking slowly as if the doctor were mentally challenged himself. "After I beat him so badly his own mother wouldn't recognize him from a dirty boxer's punching bag."

The doctor stared at him in disbelief and Hunt just looked back at him evenly.

"After what he's done?" hunt questioned. "You think he doesn't deserve it?"

The doctor just continued to gawk at the bigger man. This person was supposed to be head of the police department! It was more than a little worrisome. Hunt noted the disapproving look and gave a little chuckle as he turned away on his heel.

"Keep me posted."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam groaned long and low. He was exhausted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so lethargic. And stiff. He felt like he'd just run a marathon. But he hadn't just run a marathon. Had he? Sam groaned again as he realized he was having trouble concentrating. A look at his surroundings would clear things up.

Sam opened his heavy eyelids to a blinding white glare and he shut them immediately with a hiss of pain. Momentarily, he tried again, more slowly this time and peeking only through his fingers until his eyes were better adjusted, but what he saw was less than encouraging. Sam Tyler lay on his stomach in a small white padded room.

"What?" he questioned as he took in the small unfurnished room with growing unease. The whole room was no more than four meters by three and was completely padded in white semi-cushiony material, except for one wall where a small glass window was visible and where, Sam realized, the door must be. Sam felt his heart thumping hard in his chest and he quickly –nervously- got to his feet. It was then that he noted he was barefoot and dressed in ill fitting white hospital pants and a white t-shirt. Sam frowned.

"Hospitals don't issue gowns like this in 1973… Do they?"

Sam edged to the door, confusion growing with every ragged breath. He peeked through the window but couldn't see much of anything. "Great," he muttered. "What year is it now?"

"What year do you think it is, Sam?"

Because Sam was sure he'd been alone when he'd woken, the sound of another voice startled him greatly. He whirled around, hands flying up to protect him from whatever threat was forthcoming and stumbled back into the padded door. It had been quite an overreaction, Sam knew even as his back hit the cushiony barrier, but he was feeling unusually jumpy.

'I really am out of it…' Sam thought. Not far from where he'd woken sat a man Sam had never seen before. From the white coat he wore and the clipboard in his hands, Sam could guess the stranger was a doctor. 'How did I not see him when I woke up? Didn't I look behind me?"

"I'm sorry," the white coated man said softly. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

"Who are you?" Sam questioned. He had to admit, he had no idea what to make of the situation.

"You don't recognize me?" the stranger asked. Again his tone was filled with an excessive amount of gentleness that had Sam frowning in annoyance.

"No. I don't. Now can you please tell me what the bloody hell is goin' on?" Sam exclaimed.

The white coated man blinked at Sam judgingly then proceeded to scribble down some note on his clipboard. The DI felt his eye twitch. He was more than a little frustrated that this guy was taking his jolly time to explain himself and was more than just a little frightened that he couldn't remember through the fog in his mind to explain how he'd ended up in this situation. It reminded him of how he'd felt the day he'd been hit by a car and woken up in 1973; confused, angry, and afraid. After a long moment, the white coated man looked up, setting down his board over his crossed legs.

"Please remain calm, Mr. Tyler."

"That's DI Tyler to you. Now identify yourself!" Sam demanded.

The white coated man gave an infuriatingly curious little frown. " 'DI' Tyler, you say?"

The way the stranger had emphasized 'DI', as if there was some doubt, put Sam aback. Why would there be any doubt of his rank as Detective Inspector? There wouldn't! Unless it wasn't 1973… And if it wasn't 1973, maybe it was 2006. If it was 2006, then his rank would be DCI. 2006 and in a padded room… That was not a pleasant idea.

The sound of a pen scribbling furiously on paper brought Sam out of his thoughts. The white coated man was writing again.

"Look," Sam said assertively. "I would really like to know what's going on."

"Sam," the white coated man said with a sigh. "You're in a mental institution."

"Well, I guessed that much," Sam muttered.

"My name is Dr. Loytta. I've been treating you for the last couple days."

"Days?" Sam exclaimed.

"You were brought in the night before last, to be more precise," the Doctor elaborated in that condescending tone of his. "It's still morning on your second day with us."

Sam strained his mind, trying to recall anything that would confirm this. He shook his head. "I don't remember any of that. I don't remember getting here at all!" The idea came to him then. "What have you been giving me?"

The doctor was not put off by Sam's raised voice. "Are you feeling any pain?"

"I am stiff and groggy and it is very hard to think straight," Sam snapped. "You can't just drug me and keep me in the dark, doctor. I have rights. What did you give me? Sedatives? Something to keep me from concentrating? Why? How did I get here?"

The doctor watched him carefully as he slowly go to his feet, clipboard at the ready.

"It was necessary to medicate you, considering your unstable condition when you came in. You really don't remember what you've done?"

Sam scoffed. "I haven't _done_ anything."

That's when the realization finally hit him and he gave a relieved little laugh. "Oh, I get it. Gene Hunt put you up to this, didn't he."

It was the only explanation really. Of course, that meant he was still trapped in 1973, but that was better than 2006 and in an asylum with no answers.

"Yeah, very funny. I'm crazy. Ha. Ha," Sam replied, sarcasm dripping from his tone while he took a few paces in the doctor's direction while the doctor began to circle around towards the door. "You're probably not even a real doctor, right? And what's this then?"

Sam tapped on the padded wall then squeezed the material experimentally. "Is this some new soundproofing material or…"

Sam found himself fading off as he looked back to Loytta. The supposedly fake doctor's features were stern. Either Gene had found a very good actor or…

"You're not serious, right?" the DI questioned, his new found humor now shriveling away to leave a despair more intense than before. "Tell me you are not serious."

The doctor stuck his pen into the breast pocket of his white coat with a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid this is very serious, Sam."

Sam stood mutely as Loytta gave a rap on the glass and suddenly a section wall swung outward to a semi-lit hallway where an orderly stood in nondescript attire. Loytta gave another long sigh as he stepped out to the hall.

"We've pulled back on your meds to see how you handle it. The stiffness will fade. As for your mind, well," Loytta paused, almost as if for purely dramatic effect. "That's what we're here to study, isn't it?"

With hardly a creak, the padded door swung shut leaving a disbelieving Sam Tyler to stand in silent bewilderment.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Let me know what you think! Critiques are welcome, but kindly no flames. We (authors) all say it, but it's true: reviews make me write faster. ^_^


	2. Chapter I: Visitors

Author's Note: My apologies for my slowness. Real life's been busy and this story's been going a little slower than I'd expected. So here's chapter one! I made it nice an long to tide you over. Thank you guys for your reviews! They really do keep me typing! Cheers guys!

**Chapter 1: Visitors**

The next several hours were spent with Sam pacing fiercely around his cell. What usually helped Sam to focus was to sit down with some white noise in the background. Traffic, people chatting, static on the tv or radio, it didn't really matter as long as it wasn't overbearing. But here in this small, soft, white room where time was indeterminable, silence was a most overbearing and oppressing sound and the DI/DCI found he couldn't sit still.

"How did I get here? Think!"

Sam knew talking to himself would certainly look bad for the whole 'am I crazy or not' situation with his supposed doctor (if he was watching somewhere), but he needed some kind of noise, even if it was just the sound of his own voice, to help him figure this all out. …And even if it was the hundredth time he'd asked that very question.

He remembered waking up at five in the morning in his tiny flat in 1973 after one of those awful nightmares with the little girl and her clown.

"Couldn't go back to sleep so I made breakfast…"

Just a simple omelet and toast with good old orange juice and coffee he'd made a little too bitter.

"Then-"

A jog. An early morning run to keep himself fit. He'd just done his normal routine- around back behind his flat, down the backstreet towards the old factories, up through the small desolate park- he could remember it all so vividly!- back up the main avenue and back to his… flat…

"Wait…"

Everything up to that last bit he had recalled with absolute clarity, but after he got half way up Main Street, he found he wasn't quite so sure. The details blurred and became fuzzy. Had he gone straight home? He usually did, but he had the impression that that run might have gone differently. Had he taken a longer trip? Had he encountered somebody?

He didn't recall anything particularly violent, so it was likely that he hadn't been attacked or kidnapped at that point…

Sam rubbed his temples unhappily then took yet another peek out the small window of his padded prison. Still nothing of note. He sighed angrily and went back to his attempted recollections.

"I do remember being at work…"

Though he couldn't mentally trace his steps from his jog to his flat and down to C-Division, he did remember an intense discussion with Gene –though about what he couldn't say-, talking to Annie –with an overwhelming feeling of apology –and…

And then he could swear he remembered being grabbed. He remembered rough hands grabbing his arms and he remembered this strange feeling of satisfaction that went with it. Not satisfied about being snatched, surely. So about what then? Something he'd done before being grabbed.

Suddenly a voice spoke.

"Tyler!" Sam jumped, startled by the before unnoticed presence of another person. In the doorway, now wide open, stood a tall burly man dressed in a nurse's scrubs. "You've got a visitor."

Sam blinked at the man blankly for a minute. "Who is it?"

"Hell if I know. Now are you comin' peaceful-like or are things gonna get hairy?"

Sam frowned at the orderly. This guy had definitely wanted to be a cowboy when he was young. Probably still did. Sam followed quickly, however. If there was a visitor, Sam knew he'd be able to at the very least pick out which year he was in. At most he could get the entire story concerning why he was in the nuthouse.

The walk was a long one and through the entire ordeal, the orderly glared at him. Sam was surprised he hadn't been clapped in irons or suited up with a straight jacket. Grateful, but surprised. Finally they reached a white metal door with a large glass window. The orderly ushered Sam through and the man found himself in a common room of sorts. There were circular tables scattered around the room and a row of cushioned chairs lined against the wall.

Sam's immediate reaction was that this had to be 2006. He must've had some kind of fit while in his coma. Maybe he'd been sleep talking with his eyes open to people no one else could see and they'd thought he'd lost it and put him away?

'Has to be,' he thought with both excitement and, surprisingly enough, disappointment. He didn't think they had common rooms where inmates could gather and socialize back in '73. Did they?

Then again, he didn't see any other inmates. Maybe this was just a waiting area? They had those in both times. And maybe it didn't matter. God, his head felt so foggy.

"Where's my visitor?" Sam asked, eager for some real defining proof.

The orderly pointed to an empty table with two empty chars sitting across from each other. Sam rolled his eyes at the burly man.

"Look. Maybe this is how you people entertain yourselves during the long dull hours, mate, but don't screw with me. I'm not crazy. There's no one there," Sam growled.

The big orderly's nostrils flared a bit and he grabbed Sam roughly by his arm and dragged him to the table.

"Sit down, Tyler. He hasn't come in yet," the man sneered. "And you're definitely crazy."

Feeling a little foolish, but in no way apologetic to the bully in a nurse's uniform, Sam sat himself down in one of the two empty chairs and began drumming impatiently on the table. The orderly had said the visitor was a 'he'. That ruled out Maya and his mother who would visit him in the future. Well… maybe not Maya…

It also ruled out Annie in the past. She would visit him, he thought.

A door on the far side of the room opened and a man with scraggly white hair was ushered in. Sam frowned, hoping that this person was not his visitor, but his hopes were dashed when, upon noting Sam, the man hurried over and sat down across from him with a toothy grin. Sam had never seen this man before. Not only had he never seen the man before, he had somehow found it in his power to wear clothing that was timeless. His long black overcoat was ratty and undistinguished and oversized hiding anything significant about the white collar shirt that he wore. His pants were a straight legged black. He wore boots that were heavy and worn, but styled in no particular fashion Sam could ID from any particular time period.

His distress must have been plain on his face for the old stranger leaned in a bit and gave that toothy smile again. Perhaps it was supposed to be comforting. It wasn't.

"What's wrong, son? Not happy to see me?" the stranger asked in the craggy voice of a smoker.

Now they were really pushing it, Sam thought. "You're not my father!" Sam snapped.

"It's an expression, Sammy-boy," the older man replied after a surprised pause.

Sam winced. Strike two for Sam Tyler, he thought. Maybe he was being a little too twitchy. Then again there was definitely something strange in the visitor's chuckle as Sam watched him. He seemed almost uncomfortable.

Another tense silence. Sam had a zillion questions, but he held his tongue. Since joining the police force that long time ago (or a long time from now) Sam had interrogated many suspects and questioned many civilians. Sometimes you took a back seat and allowed the other person to speak. When used correctly this approach often provided information more useful than if you'd asked a question to them directly. His mind was racing in a hundred different directions, but he was pretty sure this was the right direction to choose. The visitor had come to see him ergo he likely had things he wanted to say.

The visitor pursed his lips and watched Sam watch him a moment, then motioned to the orderly.

"Could you give us a minute, lad?" he asked.

Sam tensed. Private conversations were always a good sign of fruitful intel, so he was quite disappointed when the orderly shook his shaggy head of hair.

"Sorry, mate. Can't. Not with a case like his."

The visitor nodded and fiddled with his jackets sleeve.

"Understandable." He turned his attention back to Sam. "So, how've you been? Had any luck? With your treatment?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow. There was something odd about the way that question had been asked, in two separate parts with the second bit almost like an afterthought.

"Well… if my treatment's results are supposed to cause amnesia," Sam replied slowly. "Then I suppose so."

"Amnesia, huh?" the visitor repeated curiously.

Sam frowned and forced himself to be patient a little longer. The visitor watched Sam as if expecting him to do something, but since Sam couldn't imagine what that might be, he was disappointed. The man pursed his lips then gave little sigh.

"Ok then, I guess I'll go."

Sam's jaw dropped. That was it? Never had he been more wrong about a strategy. As the other man stood, Sam followed suit angrily. The orderly appeared behind Sam without a sound, but Sam didn't back down.

"That's all? You come down here to ask me about luck with my treatment?" His voice had risen a few notches and out of the corner of his eye, he noted the orderly edge even closer. He didn't care. "Who are you? What's going on? What are you really here? And for that matter, what the bloody hell am I doing here?"

The visitor stepped back at Sam's outburst, nearly tripping over his chair in bewilderment.

"I-I'm just a friend, Sam. I just came for a visit! Wanted to know how they were treatin' you-"

"That's no answer!"

The orderly's heavy hand landed on Sam's shoulder. "Calm down, Tyler."

"All I want is information!" Sam cried. "Why can't anyone just give me a straight answer?"

The stranger seemed quite perturbed. "I should go," he said as he headed for the door.

"No!" cried Sam, both commandingly and pleadingly. He made to follow, but the strong hand of the orderly kept him still.

"Yes," the orderly countered.

Sam briefly considered ripping it off and going for a more forceful approach when the visitor's eyes lit up and he stopped his backpedaling departure.

"Wait!" the visitor exclaimed. He reached into his overcoat's inside pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. The orderly wrinkled his nose but didn't stop the visitor from approaching them and tossing the letter on the table. Sam leaned in and picked it up almost warily.

"Who's it from?" he asked.

"From Mr. Callahan, kid," the visitor replied. "Read it and, uh, feel better, Sammy-boy."

And with that, the visitor turned and hurried for the door. Sam opened his mouth to question the visitor one last time, but the orderly's deterring hand tightened its hold on his shoulder. Sam didn't argue. One last question wasn't likely to make the visitor any less useless than he had been. As the old wooden door swung shut Sam turned his attention back to the envelope.

It hadn't been sealed, but the back flap had been folded inward to keep it closed. Ignoring the orderly behind him, Sam opened the envelope and slid out the note inside. The paper, torn from some larger piece, had been folded in half. In his frustration Sam nearly tore it again as he pulled it open. Surely the letter would be of some use.

He was disappointed. The semi-neat hand read:

_Sam,_

_Hope you're feeling better. Sorry I couldn't come see you in person, but you know how things are at work. I know your mother wants to see you. Maybe on the 12__th__ or 14__th__. Don't worry about all this, we'll make it right. You just worry about getting better and doing what the nurses tell you. Give them the old ten two!_

_ -H. Callahan_

Sam frowned. "Feel better? Ten two?" Wasn't the saying 'one two' anyway? "This can't be it," Sam muttered. He flipped the page over but found only a coffee stain.

"What? Not from your secret admirer?" the orderly jeered.

Sam just scowled, wondering how many times a perfect opportunity for information would wind up being worthless.

"Who's 'H. Callahan'?" he questioned aloud.

The hand on Sam's shoulder gave him a gentle push towards the door leading down to his cell.

"Don't know, don't care," the big man barked.

Sam looked over his shoulder to the door through which the uselessly mysterious visitor had vanished and suddenly felt very claustrophobic. He wanted out. He needed air. If he could just-

As if sensing Sam's tension, the orderly pushed him a little faster towards the opposite door.

"Come on, Tyler. I've got other things to be doing," the man growled.

The door slammed shut behind them, locking automatically behind them. The noise was surprisingly loud and Sam's hands went to his ears as they rang painfully. The orderly seemed unperturbed as he pushed Sam further along and the detective inspector had to wonder if the man had a hearing problem or if he was just extra sensitive from the meds. Shaking his head to clear it, Sam looked wearily to the man just behind him. All the fretting, annoyances, and confusion were taking their toll. He was tired and it was all giving him a headache.

"Please," he begged. "Just tell me something."

The bigger man sighed and pushed Sam forward again. "Fine. What?"

"Just tell me what year it is and... why I'm here."

The orderly snorted. "That's two somethings. But I give. I'll tell. You really are crazy aren't ya'? Sam Tyler, you brutally murdered three police officers and are too crazy for plain old normal jail. It is 2006 and that's why yer here."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The double doors to the CID offices swung open violently giving way to a quartet of unhappy looking faces. The officers within, who'd been lounging quite lazily, straightened up sharply as they recognized Detective Superintendent Tannon at the head of the group. Tannon stopped by Chris and Ray, the former of whom got to his feet nervously, the latter of which remained seated on Chris's desk watching the four suspiciously.

"DI Carling, DS Skelton," the superior greeted, obviously showing off that he knew the names of his subordinates even in an office he didn't often visit. Ray wasn't impressed. Chris was unnerved. "Is DCI Hunt in?"

"In his office," Ray answered with a wave towards the back.

Tannon gave an appreciative nod and motioned to one of his followers and the pair moved off towards Gene's office, leaving the other two flunkies to stand aloof amongst the suspicious glances of the CID officers. Chris leaned closer to Ray, eyes on the newcomers that were headed Gene Hunt's way.

"Do you think we shoulda warned the Guv?" the young man asked.

"About what?" Ray asked, eyes looking in the same direction. "That the Super's here or that Derek Litton is with him?"

"They're here 'cause of the boss- um- Sam Tyler, right?"

"I'd bet a week's worth of drinks at the Railway Arms," Ray replied as he crossed his arms contemptuously. "They're gonna try to take the case from the guv. An' he's not gonna be happy."

-.-.-.-.-

At the sound of the sharp rap on the door, Gene straightened in his chair, but didn't get up. He couldn't tell who it was standing out there, but he had a pretty good idea. There weren't many things besides himself that could make the air of the CID go quite as still as it had. Gene flipped shut the folder he'd been reading, leaving visible only a few words on the outside; Case Number 20-06-1973 Triple Homicide, and shoved it into the top drawer of his desk.

"Come in," he called. Quite civilly too, he thought. He regretted his good manners immediately when the two men entered.

The tall thin Superintendent, or someone like him, Gene was expecting. The second man, well… Gene would have been happy if he'd never seen DCI 'Prick' Litton of the Regional Crime Squad ever again. According to Gene, Litton wasn't the least bit deserving of whatever manners Gene might possess. Catching Gene's glare, Litton gave an arrogant smirk that made Gene's blood boil. If only the Superintendent wasn't there he'd take Litton's ridiculous polka-dotted bow tie and-

"Good afternoon, DCI Hunt," Superintendent Tannon greeted cordially. You could tell the guy was new to his job, Gene thought. He still retained an energy and honest geniality that drained away after years that high up on the food chain. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm Superintendent Benjamin Tannon. And this is DCI Derek Litton, though I believe you're already acquainted."

"I remember you, Superintendent," Gene replied, pointedly ignoring Litton. "An' what brings you to my neck o' the woods?"

"That would be me, Gene-o," came Litton's nasal drawl. He took a half step forward and looked about to continue, but Gene interrupted.

"I do believe, Litton," Gene sneered, "That I was talkin' to Superintendent Tannon!"

Aggravated, Litton too raised his voice. "And I believe-"

"Gentlemen!" Tannon exclaimed before Litton could finish. Gene gave a disgruntled but acknowledging "hmph" and Litton stepped back to let his superior have the floor. "Thank you. Now, Gene, Derek here has made known to me an interesting matter of jurisdiction."

"Oh?" Gene asked innocently, but gruffly. The truth of it was that he knew exactly what Tannon was referring to, but he wasn't about to make this easy on Litton. He looked at the shorter of the pair and stood up, straightening his tie. "Ya' know, Litton, you coulda come to me about any problems you might have. You didn't have to bother the Superintendent."

Just as Gene had hoped he would, Tannon looked to Litton with annoyance and disappointment. For a happy moment the elder man down looked on Litton, obviously displeased that Litton was wasting his time. Then Litton, his usually calm though snooty demeanor broken by the slight flush of color in his cheeks from his superior's disapproving stare, responded.

"As DCI Hunt knows, I already came to him about this matter," Litton explained, his cool returned. The man motioned to himself. "I told him that the case was well within our jurisdiction and that it should be handed over to the Regional Crime Squad. He… colorfully refused to do so."

Tannon's stern eyes moved now to Gene. He didn't care. That moment had still been very worth it. Gene leaned forward on his desk.

"I'm still not sure what you mean, Litton. You have a horrible tendency to whine an' it all starts to sound the same."

"He's referring to the triple homicide, Gene. The cop killer," Tannon elaborated, already annoyed at Litton and Gene's childish rivalry.

There it was. Litton was trying to steal his case. To move in on Gene's territory and do his job. Gene put his attention back on Tannon, sizing the older man up.

"Homicide is CID jurisdiction," Gene replied evenly. "That case came to our attention after the first murder, one Police Constable Eames. We connected that murder and two others while the Regional Crime Squad was busy runnin' in circles with their 'eads up their asses and solved nothin'. I think it's obvious who deserves this case."

Litton looked more insulted than usual at Gene's small jab. "If we had been notified in the beginning-"

"It was a murder case! Clearly my territory!"

Tannon started softly. "Gentlemen-"

"You have no idea what this is, Gene-o!"

"It's a case that requires real police work! Not your-"

"Gentlemen!" Tannon's shout silenced them both. The older man sighed and fidgeted momentarily with his mustache as if trying to decide where best to start. Gene took the opportunity for one last point in his favor.

"Doesn't matter anymore anyway," Gene said more quietly. "We already got the bastard that did it."

That little bit of information set the pair aback.

"Oh?" questioned Tannon. Litton remained silently flabbergasted.

"Yup."

"Why haven't I heard about this?"

"The report's on its way up," Gene lied. He was a bit behind on that. However- "However the Detective Chief Superintendent was directly informed. We made the arrest two nights ago. As you know, the Chief Super was in all week updatin' protocols and the like so he knew soon after we did."

"I see," Tannon replied thoughtfully. Litton stepped past Tannon, the look in his eyes conveying that he clearly thought Gene was lying.

"Well, Gene-o I've got to say I'm very impressed," he said, coming to a stop before Gene's desk. "So who was our perpetrator? Where is he? I'd very much like to have a word."

"I'm sure you would, Litton," Gene interrupted, his whole becoming more sour than it had been when Litton had first waltzed in. And why wouldn't it? This conversation was hitting a nerve now. "Unfortunately he aint here anymore."

"Any why not?" Tannon questioned, before Litton could get the words out himself.

Gene glowered at a lone pen on his desk top, pursing his lips as if what he was saying, or about to say, left a bad taste in his mouth.

"'Cause we did it by the book," Gene answered after a pause.

"Excuse me?" Tannon questioned, his thin brows creased in a frown.

"We accused the bastard an' once he figured out he was trapped, he pled insanity."

Litton scoffed. "So?"

"So," Gene repeated, voice rising. "The Super decided that this case had to be watertight. Three police killed by another is gonna shake us to the core. If he convinces a jury he wasn't in his right mind-"

"Who did it?" Tannon interrupted. But Gene continued.

"Then they might let him off easy. So we sent him to the loony bin to get a bill o' health from the quacks-"

"Gene-"

"'Cause there's no way in hell he's getting away with-"

"Gene!"

The DCI paused.

"Who did you find is behind the murders?" Tannon asked, his voice deadly serious. Litton stood off to the side now, waiting on tenterhooks for the information like a dog waiting for a steak.

Gene didn't like the way Tannon had said 'who did you find', almost as if there was some doubt cast upon his person to be able to find the real perpetrator. Gene put his own annoyance over that detail to the side for a moment as his focus returned to the entire question that had been put to him.

"The killer was Sam Tyler."

The moment of still that followed was most uncomfortable as the Super and Litton rolled the answer around in their heads. It was Litton that spoke first.

"Tyler? You don't mean that crazy new DI of yours."

"That's exactly who I mean and yeah, as it turns out he is crazy. The so called doctors are refusin' to write him up as sane," Gene explained.

"Well, that's unfortunate," Tannon replied, attitude surprisingly blasé, considering. "And yet most favorable that we now have him for questioning."

Gene frowned. "What for?"

"Good work on apprehending our murderer, Gene, but I'm recommending that this case now be handed over to the Regional Crime Squad for the duration of this investigation."

"Sir," Gene said, rounding the side of his desk. "The investigation is over."

"I'm afraid not, Gene. There is more going on than just the murder of a few cops and I believe it can best be handled by Litton's team."

_Just a _few _cops? _As if those cops meant nothing? Gene felt himself turning red with anger. "With all due-"

"No more about it," Tannon said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "As soon as possible, I want all pertinent information concerning this case and personnel files on this Tyler fellow given to DCI Litton. Good work, Gene. I'm sure the wives of our dead men will rest a little easier with this psychopath taken care of."

And with that the Superintendent left Gene to stare at his door in bewilderment. That was it? 'Good job, we'll take it from here'? No doubts to Sam Tyler's involvement as a murdering bastard or questions about the evidence that had led them to that knowledge?

"Sorry, Gene-o." Litton was still there, a smug smile on his face. "Guess the best man won after all, hm?"

"I'm surprised at you, Litton. Since when do you go crying to the Super instead o' handin' things on yer own? You afraid to fight like a man, now?" Gene questioned gruffly.

Litton sniffed, unperturbed by the taunt. "Well, you were being quite unreasonable," he replied with a little sneer as he headed to the door. "And I didn't go to him. He came to me first about the case. Seemed quite surprised to find that such an important case was in the hands of the CID."

Litton gave a little chuckle and swung open the door as Gene's brows creased once again.

"Hey." It was the strange lack of underlying hatred or sarcasm that made Litton pause in his exit. "We both know murder is my territory. What's really goin' on here, Litton?"

The other man stared hard at Gene for a minute as if considering, then gave a shrug. "I'm sorry, Gene-o. I really can't say." He looked about to leave, turned away even before turning back to face the now fuming Gene Hunt. "And it really is too bad about Sam Tyler. He was…different."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued...

PS: If you got to the end of this chapter: Cheers! It did turn out kinda long, didn't it. As thanks for your patience, I offer this!: the address to a fanfic vid I created a little while back! It started off as its own thing, but it warped into a trailer for this fanfiction. .com/watch?v=_Dbu7sTDcJk This is what happens when I'm LoM deprived! O.O

Let me know what you think about the chapter! Reviews are always appreciated.


	3. Chapter II: Resilient Parasites

A/N: My apologies to everyone waiting on this story. I really did not intend to be gone so long. Long story short: RL has been busy, busy, busy. Thank you all for your reviews and your patience! Reviews really did keep me going (admittedly at a snail's pace, but hey! Better than nothing. )

Recap: Sam wakes up in his very own padded cell in a mental institution where he is informed that it is 2006 and he has killed three police officers. He hopes that a visitor will help sort out his situation, but is left with nothing but a letter from "Mr. Callahan".  
Meanwhile, Superintendent Tannon and DCI Derek Litton try to take a murder case away from Gene Hunt and Co. despite seemingly obvious jurisdiction only to find that Gene has already solved the case. Three police officers had been murdered by their very own Sam Tyler...

**Chapter 2: Resilient Parasites**

Sam sat by himself at a small round table, back in the common room where he'd spoken with the visitor only a few hours earlier. It was occupied now. Dr. Loytta had announced that Sam would be allowed to join in with the other patients during one of the socialization sessions. The so called 'sessions' consisted of putting thirteen patients into the common room and letting them go. Orderlies stood around the room, a couple interacting in a friendly manner with the patients, others looking more like body guards standing at rest at the sides of the room.

Sam's table was semi-near the back corner. He would've preferred one in a corner so that his back would be to the wall and he might watch everything and everyone as they went about the room, but they were all occupied. He attempted to convince one patient to move to a different table, but that had resulted in the patient breaking down into a screaming fit and he'd received several threatening glares from the orderlies.

He wasn't going to try that again.

So now he sat almost at the back of the room and almost by the corner. He felt exposed and he found that that made concentrating on his bigger problems even more difficult than it had been. Instead he found himself just watching the other patients. Most appeared heavily tranquilized or mentally handicapped in such a way that they seemed almost childlike and harmless. Some of them spoke to each other or to the orderlies that assisted them. Others just spoke to themselves.

Sam shook his head. He was not like that. He was not crazy. Nor was he a murderer. If he could just think far enough past the meds that had been forced on him he was sure he could remember how he'd ended up being thought of as such.

"Hi," greeted a cheerful voice. Sam started, surprised to find a man sitting in the chair next to him. "Geez, you're jumpy," the man observed.

Sam glared daggers at the stranger, quite unhappy with the intrusion on his space. The man wore the same sort of attire that Sam did. A patient then. His dark blond hair was slicked back and his beady eyes looked about the room as if to make sure they weren't being spied upon. The scene reminded Sam very much looked like the set up to a drug deal.

"So you're the cop killer, huh?" the stranger questioned bluntly.

Sam bristled. "I didn't kill anybody!" he exclaimed.

Sam's raised voice made the stranger cringe and his eyes flicked to the nearest orderly who was now watching them carefully. The stranger gave a shaking little wave then leaned in to hush Sam.

"Shhh! Keep it down, 'ey!" he hissed. He turned his eyes back to Sam and past the bloodshot lines, Sam noted a crazy kind of sanity. "Do you want them all over here listening in?"

Sam frowned. "Why should I care what they hear?"

The man's left eye twitched and just as quickly as he'd leaned across the table to speak to Sam in confidence, he leaned away, slouching back in his white plastic chair. His leg bobbed up and down restlessly and he looked upon his short fingernails with sudden interest.

"You should care, 'cause I know why you're here, Sam," the stranger replied.

"I'm here by mistake," Sam told him. He couldn't decide whether he was annoyed or intrigued by this fellow. Logically he thought annoyance was the proper response, but something forgotten stirred in the back of his mind as the man spoke that made Sam the least bit curious. "Do I know you?"

"No, you don't know me, mate. And you're not here by mistake," the man straightened and the look of seriousness returned. "We're all here fer a reason. It's an institution for the criminally insane, you know."

Sam's curiosity evaporated in rekindled anger at his situation. "I told you," he growled. "I didn't-"

"Nah, you're not no killer," the man chuckled and Sam wondered at the use of the patient's double negative considering he'd been pretty well spoken if not rushed so far. Seeing Sam's frown, the stranger scowled. "Listen," he said leaning forward. "Listen, listen! You can hear the truth if you listen."

Sam shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. He'd let the nut job talk long enough. "I don't have time for this sh-"

Suddenly the stranger leaned over the table and grabbed Sam by the wrist with a strength that surprised him. "Listen! I'm talking about the _truth_," he said pleadingly. Then the stranger lifted the fingers of his free hand and tapped them against his temple emphatically. To Sam's horror with every tap he saw a vision in his mind's eye.

One. Sam was leaning against the door of his jeep. He was crying. He turned to look down the street. Something big streaked towards him. Pain.

Two. There was a white tiled ceiling. He could hear an EKG monitor beeping in time with his heartbeat.

Three. Annie Cartwright stood across from him. Her large brown eyes were filled with concern. She opened her mouth to speak-

Four. The ceiling was back. A doctor stood over him, face obscured by shadow.

Five. He looked down on the torn corpse of a middle aged police constable. Blood was everywhere. Blood was on his hands. He looked at the dead man and heard himself speak a single word followed by a feeling of satisfaction. "Good."

Sam jerked away as if he'd touched an open electrical socket. The officer found himself gasping for breath as his heart pounded in his ears. With a shaking hand he wiped away the sheen of sweat that had broken out on his forehead and he tried desperately to blink away the images.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded in a whisper. Now it was his turn to look around suspiciously. One of the orderlies was edging in their direction. Apparently they were causing a scene. Sam tried to give an assuring smile, but he was sure it'd looked more like a grimace. He leaned back across the table. "Tell me." He demanded in a growl.

"Did you listen?" the stranger questioned eagerly.

"I was standing over a dead man," Sam hissed. He did not, however, elaborate. The other visions or memories or whatever made sense, but that last one? How could he have stood over a mutilated corpse and felt satisfied like that?

The stranger leaned in as well. "Seeing is a start, but you've gotta listen!" the patient tapped his head again and Sam flinched in anticipation of more visions, but nothing happened. As he breathed a sigh of relief the stranger continued. "Neither of us really belongs here, you know. Just so happens we both had to be here to meet."

Sam sat back down and put his head in his hands. He didn't hate riddles and puzzles. They were why he'd chosen to become a detective. He did not like them, however, when it was his own situation that was shrouded in mystery.

"Who _are_ you?" Sam demanded, his voice still low as he glared at the man through his fingers. "What's your interest with me?"

The stranger's eyes lit up and he gave a boyish smile as he pointed to himself. "My name's Charles. People 'round here call me 'Mr. Charles'. You know why?"

Sam indulged the man by giving a small shake of his head.

"Because I'm the most gentlemanly fellow in this whole establishment. You've gotta have manners if you don't want to be mixed up with all the barbarous types out there, you know."

Sam gave an incredulous little chuckle. It was a funny thought for some reason, yet not completely ridiculous considering the outburst of the other patient earlier and the rude overbearing demeanor of several orderlies.

"That's not the only reason," 'Mr. Charles' said as he attempted to peel off a piece of the top layer of their table. "The thing is, I'm an idea man."

The inspector's brows lifted. "An idea man?"

"Yeah," Charles confirmed, pausing his desecration of the table to scratch at his goatee. At least, it had probably been a goatee before a couple days without shaving had all but blended it with the rest of his facial hair. "Ideas are important. They keep you going even when it seems you've got nothin' to go for. Take this place."

Charles waved his arms out wide. "This place is all built from ideas and once you get your mind trapped in an idea, it's very hard to get out."

"So you… what? Give out ideas?"

Charles shrugged. "Well, lately I've been more of a classifier of ideas…"

"You didn't answer my other question. What's your interest with me?" Sam pushed, trying to get Charles back on track.

"But you know what else is like an idea?" Charles continued, heedless. "Parasites. They burrow into your subconscious and-"

"Hey. Focus!" Sam urged, leaning in to give the man a clap on the shoulder. Charles jerked in surprise at the touch, as if he'd forgotten altogether that Sam was there. "How do you know me, Charles?"

The blond man raised his shoulders in a shrug. "Everybody knew you were here. You made an entrance! Sam Tyler: the cop killing murdering bastard scum." Charles paused. "Or something like that."

The line of insults seemed almost wrong on Charles, but they did remind Sam of somebody else.

"Where did you hear that?" Sam questioned.

Charles shrugged and went back to picking at the table. "I was out for a walk when they brought you in. Saw you and them from afar. You were right nasty 'til they drugged you up and dragged you off. They talked about you behind your back. They were pretty rude themselves. Or 'he' was at least."

"_Who_ was?" Sam pushed.

"Big guy," Charles replied with another shrug, still deeply interested in the table. "Loud. Tan coat. Light brown hair or… well hair." Charles pursed his lips then looked up at Sam who was staring and gave a little smirk. "They said something about a hunt and that he'd caught his prey."

Sam gawked. "A hunt?" he repeated. "You mean 'Hunt'? Gene Hunt?"

Charles pointed a piece of torn off table-top at Sam with a smile. "That's the one."

Sam sat back in his chair shaking his head. "No. It couldn't have been Gene. Gene's in…" Sam jabbed a finger at the table, startling Charles who yanked up another large piece of table top. "This is 2006."

Charles tipped his head to the side, reminding Sam of a dog who'd just been given a command he didn't understand.

"Don't think I've been in here that long. But maybe I have! Now _there's_ an idea."

"I don't understand," Sam said miserably. "I asked an orderly. He _told_ me. If he wanted to lie, how would he know to tell me that particular year? Why not 2173 or 1500?"

Charles snorted. "Because those're ridiculous."

"No." Sam sat forward, hands slapping down the table and a fury building from deep within him that he didn't know he had. Charles stared back at him with wide frightened eyes, but Sam ignored him.

"What year is it?" he demanded hotly. His angry movement had caught the attention of the orderlies and they began to converge on the pair.

"Hey!" called the closest, a warning for Sam to calm himself, but Sam paid him no heed. It was Mr. Charles who was the pinnacle of his attention now and all the unusual and frightening anger that came with it.

Charles, still wide eyed and obviously alarmed by Sam's sudden change in temperament, blinked, shuddered once then motioned at Sam.

"Sam, they- they've put an idea in your head," he stuttered.

Sam sneered. How dare this man continue to speak in riddles!

"Once you've got an idea in your head, it's impossible to remove it!" Charles continued ardently.

The orderlies arrived. "I think that's enough socialization for today," the nearest orderly declared.

Sam hardly heard him. Sam was far too busy staring down at the cringing Mr. Charles. Too busy wondering how those beady blue eyes would look if he put them out... If that didn't teach the lunatic not to play word games with Detective sometimes-Chief Inspector Sam Tyler, he could always move on to breaking fingers. He'd just pull them back slowly one at a time until they-

"Tyler!"

The orderly's shout brought Sam back. His terrible rage deflated with every ragged breath until finally, several long moments later, he was left a shaking and horrified husk. His knees went out and if the two orderlies weren't already holding him, he surely would've collapsed to the floor. He was himself again, disgusted by the cruel thoughts that had flooded easily into his mind and he looked around him from face to face wondering how much they'd all seen.

However much it was, it had been enough. The orderlies all watched him cautiously, as if he was an explosive and at any moment he might go off. Beyond them the other patients watched with a kind of tense curiosity. And then there was Charles. The man had to be about Sam's age, probably a little younger, but with his knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them protectively, he looked very much like an abused child who expected another beating. Sam was speechless.

"Come on, Tyler. Back to yer room, eh?"

Sam felt the tension in the room crackling as the two orderlies bracing Sam began to pull him towards the door. Sam's horror-filled eyes stayed locked on Charles as long as he was able. Just before he was turned away, Charles lifted his head and called out to him.

"You've got to listen, Sam! Remember to listen past the idea! 2006 isn't when you're here, but it is why you're here!"

Sam twisted his head to look back over his shoulder where he saw another orderly step up to Charles and put a quieting hand on his arm.

"Quiet now, Charles. No more o' that."

And with that Sam was dragged through a white metal door back towards his cell.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Night had fallen and in downtown Manchester the hustle and bustle of the day's activities were calming down. Few cars were on the road now as most of the drivers had already hurried home and now sat hungrily at the dinner table. Several people wandered down the lonely streets towards the nearest pub as they had no one at home to eat with and preferred the lively company at the bar than the quiet solitude alone.

Still others with more questionable intentions roamed the streets hurriedly, their eyes going every which way as they searched for some hidden danger. One of these was an older man. His scruffy white hair which had long receded around the temples blew in the wind that whipped through the narrow street down which he strode. The man grumbled and pulled his black overcoat tighter around himself then cursed as he stepped in a puddle he hadn't noticed in time.

He hurried down to the far end of the street where a car was parked, facing him. When he was close enough, a figure stepped out of the passenger side and walked up to the meet him. Though the figure's details were hidden in shadow, it was obviously female.

The woman held up a halting hand and the man came to a stop.

"Well?" the woman asked.

"I went to see Sam Tyler, like ya' said." The man said.

"And?"

The man shook his head. "He was very strange. Very strange."

"You were told he would be acting strange."

"I didn't know he'd be _that _strange," the man replied, pushing his hair back behind his ear.

"Did you ask him what we told you to ask him?" the woman questioned.

"Yeah. That I did. He was right cryptic though." The man reached into the folds of his coat. "He said somethin' about memory loss and asked me why he was there and who I was." He pulled out a crumpled up piece of paper and offered it to her. "I wrote it all down."

The woman took it and placed it in the pocket of her own coat without examining it.

"I don't know what you're doing with him, but I'd stay clear if I were you. He really is quite mad."

"Did you give him the letter?"

The man scowled, unhappy that his sage advice was going unheeded. "Yes," he replied.

"Did he read it?"

"Not while I was there. The orderlies were rushing me out," he lied. Letting the woman know that Sam had scared him away probably wouldn't look good. Even so, there was something about the woman's stance that told him she didn't believe him anyway.

She said nothing about it however. She gave a nod instead and turned back towards the car. "Goodnight."

"Wait! We're even now, right?" he called. "Your boss said that if I did this-"

"He said you'd owe him one less favor," the woman corrected as she pulled open the car door. "I was there, remember?"

"Right," the older man grumbled as the car started up. The lights flashed on, blinding the man before he could get his arms up to guard his face. With a growl of the engine, the car backed up and drove out into the night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued. I swear! _  
Reviews and thoughts are awesome!


	4. Chapter III: Choice

Author's Note:  Thanks to everyone who took the time to review!

**CHAPTER 3: Choice**

Ray knocked on Gene's door. Barely waiting for acknowledgment, he entered.

"Hey, guv. Litton's people are on the line again. They're askin' for those case files."

Gene looked up from the papers he'd been searching through. "What time is it?"

Ray pulled up his sleeve to check his watch. "Just after three."

Gene nodded. "We need to hold them off a bit longer. Did Cartwright find out if Litton of Tannon took a trip to the crazy house yet?"

"She said she called over, but no one's seen 'em yet," Ray replied, chewing on a wad of gum.

"Good. They're waiting for the case files before they interrogate him. Depending on how much of a spine that prick of a doctor has, they might not get in to see him anyway," Gene thought aloud. "Keep stallin', Ray. We don't want them screwin' all this up. Not when we're so close to endin' it."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Shadowed figures moved about the unidentified space around him. There was an annoying but constant beeping coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Sam tried to concentrate on any one thing, but that was quite impossible.

"We're registering an increase of activity in the forward lobe," said a woman's voice. She sounded very far away.

"No negative side effects?" questioned a male voice. He was much closer. Sam tried to turn his head to see him, but couldn't.

"None that we could detect," the woman replied. She was closer now. "But he still doesn't show any signs of regaining consciousness.

"Hm," was the man's response. There was a pause filled only by the beeping. "Increase the dosage."

Suddenly a rushing sound filled his ears, drowning out the beeping and any response the woman might have had and he jolted awake. Beside him, a figure jumped in surprise.

"Geez! You scared me!"

Sam groaned, taking in the world around him, all of it far too bright. He was back in the asylum's common room. The patients and orderlies were back and beside him, slipper covered feet propped on the table, was Charles.

"Have a nice nap, Sam?" Charles asked cheerfully. "I guess they sedated you a bit this time, ey?"

Sam put his head in his hands. "What's goin' on?" he asked.

Charles shrugged. "Not much."

"No, I mean… when did I get back here?"

Charles pursed his lips thoughtfully. "About half an hour ago, I'd say. Just after three."

"Three?" Great Sam thought. Another night had past. As he fought to remember, he did recall being brought back to his cell after that inexcusable bout of rage. He remembered falling asleep and… meds. Something about increasing the dosage.

"Oh, my head…" he moaned into his hands.

"Oh, cheer up, Sam," Charles replied, his mood still far too happy for Sam.

"Why?" Sam questioned, lifting his head. "What have I got to be cheery about?"

Charles crossed his arms thoughtfully, taking the question quite seriously. "Well, you've got your health, don't you?"

Sam considered his aching skull and his tired body. "No."

Charles brought a hand up to scratch through his slicked back hair in a jittery motion that again reminded Sam of an addict in withdrawal. And for all Sam knew, he was. "Well, you've got your sanity then."

This made Sam laugh, low and full of self doubt. "Do I? I don't even know anymore. I mean look around," Sam said as he leaned back in his chair and motioned about the room. "Who puts themselves in an asylum when they're already in a coma dream? Answer me that, 'Mr. Charles'."

Charles looked at Sam blankly. "Um… what?"

Sam closed his eyes and slumped down further in the plastic chair. "Never mind," he muttered.

Silence greeted him and after about thirty seconds, Sam turned to look for Charles. His companion was still there, eyes darting –but darting thoughtfully- around the room. Sam wondered then why Charles was even still speaking with him. Sam had completely lost it on the man and yet Charles had still chosen to return to his company. Despite the man's jittery demeanor and the fact that he always seemed on high alert even when he spoke calmly, Sam didn't believe Charles had alienated himself from everyone else in the room. Had he wanted, Charles likely could have sat himself down next to some other patient and struck up some inane conversation just as easily as he did with Sam. For some reason he'd come back to the guy who'd blown up on him. Sam cleared his throat.

"Hey, Charles, I'm really sorry, mate," Sam started as he straightened in his chair. "For yesterday, I mean. I really… don't know what came over me."

Charles shrugged. "It's all right. It wasn't you."

"No, it wasn't," Sam agreed, crossing his arms even as Charles dropped his feet to the linoleum floor. For a moment, the pair seemed near mirror images. "Any time before I got here, I would never have reacted like that, never gotten so angry or violent."

"But you've been having these weird thoughts lately," Charles put in knowingly.

"Yeah…" Sam agreed, looking inquisitively to the patient beside him.

"This place brings out the better in some people and the worst in others," Charles told him sagely.

'I didn't think that anger -those thoughts- were possible of me at all,' Sam thought wretchedly.

Suddenly, Charles's eyes went wide and he sat up with excitement. "I know what you have!" he exclaimed. A few other patients looked their way, but quickly went back to their own dealings. "So you don't have your health or your mind. And maybe you killed a few people in cold blood. So what? There's still one thing you have got."

Sam gawked at the madman before him, unable to respond. Charles leaned in as he had the previous day, preparing to conspire with Sam against the world and whispered, "You've got a way out."

The DI squinted hard at Charles. "What?"

Charles beamed. "Didn't I mention?" he said quietly. "I'm breakin' outta this hot dog stand!"

"Hot dog-?"

"You can come if you want."

"You're crazy," Sam scoffed.

"So they tell me," Charles replied with a devious smile. "But I'm still getting' out. Are you in?"

Sam searched the crazy man as Charles held out a hand to shake.

"Do you have a plan?" Sam questioned, still disbelieving.

Charles tapped the side of his nose then held out the hand again. "That's need-to-know, Sammy."

"Well, I need to know," Sam pushed.

"You just think you need to know. What you need is a little faith," Charles countered confidently.

The guy was a pretty smooth talker for one who was supposed to be mentally disturbed. Sam almost wanted to take the man's hand. Instead he shook his head.

"What would that accomplish? Say somehow we did get out. Then what? The police would just hunt us down and I'd be put away forever. What I need to do is get in contact with Gene. I've got to convince him I'm innocent-"

Charles stood up from his chair slowly, his fingers tapping against his pant leg as he looked knowingly and sadly down at Sam. "You're not going to get anything proven by staying here. They," Charles motioned vaguely towards the windows to indicate the outside world. "Already think they know all they need to know. They're not going to help you. You've got to help yourself now. If you ever want to wake up, Sam, if you ever wanna snap out of it, you're gonna need to get out."

Sam stared hard at Charles as he spoke of waking and a strange feeling past over him. It was a rushing feeling, a feeling of falling. He felt a prick on his arm- sharp and painful for just a moment. He flinched and grabbed his arm, but there was nothing there. He heard the sound of a heart monitor somewhere nearby, but Sam knew it was not coming from anywhere in the asylum. He'd heard it too many times before.

"You think about it, Sam Tyler," came the strangely calm and sure voice of Charles. "You think about it hard. Just remember this…"

Sam trained his suddenly bleary eyes on the man standing before him and for a moment he saw not a pale twitchy patient, but a confident, straight backed stranger. The new Charles looked skyward.

"The thing about dreams is that you can never really control everything you bring into it. Dreams are an alternative to darkness and stale nothingness. They can let you solve problems you couldn't on the outside, but you can also let in your demons or create new ones." The calm Mr. Charles looked down at him sternly. "All it takes is an idea to worm its way in. That's when you start to lose yourself. That's when you become what you weren't. Don't let the idea control you."

The lights were too bright and getting brighter. Sam lifted an arm to shield his face. "What idea?"

"Do you want to wake up?" Charles's voice questioned from somewhere in the light. "Do you?"

"Of course!" Sam exclaimed.

Suddenly a sweaty hand clasped Sam's and he blinked. The lights had gone back to normal and Charles had returned to his hunched and overly energetic self. He shook Sam's hand with abandon.

"Good, good. Then I'll see to it," Charles replied then dashed off to speak with the nearest orderly and leaving Sam to wonder what had just happened and what he'd gotten himself into.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Police Constable Lucas Sanderson."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, guv."

"That makes three."

"Yeah."

"This is disgustin'. Some bastard killer thinks he can get away with murderin' police officers. Thinks he's better than the law!"

The other chuckled.

"What?"

More chuckling.

"Am I missing something, Tyler? Since when was murder funny?"

"It's just… what you said about the killer thinkin' he's better than the law."

"How is that funny?"

"It's funny 'cause he doesn't think he's better than the law."

Gene Hunt's eyes widened as Sam Tyler pulled out a service revolver and aimed the weapon at the DCI's chest with a smirk.

"I _know _I am!"

At the sound of the deafening gunshot, Sam started into wakefulness. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was still in the common room. Patients and orderlies were looking around in confusion as Sam buried his head in his hands, ignoring them all and uncaring of how crazy it looked as he began to rock and mutter to himself.

"It wasn't real. It wasn't real."

But it had _felt_ real. It had _felt_ like a memory. He could remember the weight of the revolver in his hand, the blowback as he'd fired. It had felt as real as those –for lack of a better term- visions that he'd gotten when he'd been speaking to Charles the previous day.

"But it can't be real."

Charles had said himself that Gene had been the one to bring Sam in. Sam couldn't have shot him… Then what-

A big meaty hand grabbed Sam by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet. "Stop day dreaming, Tyler."

It was the way the orderly's voice wavered as he spoke that caught Sam's attention and for the first time, he really looked around the common room. His brows lifted as he realized that the confused looks of patients and orderlies were not directed at him. Whatever sound or jerking motion he'd made when he'd awoken had gone unnoticed. Something else held everyone's attention. And they were worried.

Besides the whimpering of two other patients as the orderlies ushered everyone towards the back door and the cell block, there was a dead silence. The decided lack of common background noise –squeaky wheels on a medicine cart, doctors chatting as they walked the halls, even the buzz of electricity in the bulbs above their heads- put Sam on edge.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"You didn't hear that? What are you? Deaf?" the orderly scoffed. Sam thought his name was Frank.

"What?" he pushed.

"An explosion. Sounded like it came from the west wing." the man replied quickly, apparently eager to confide in someone, even a patient. "Either way, we're getting' everyone back to their rooms, so get movin'!"

"Explosion?" Sam echoed as the orderly continued to urge him towards the back door and the east wing. Sam's instincts shouted that something didn't make sense. The back door led to a holding room, a checkpoint between the two wings and the common room. The door to each wing was thick and locked, but if there was an explosion, locks might not matter. The orderlies were taking them towards the source of the explosion.

"I don't think we should be going that way, Frank," Sam said, hoping he remembered the man's name correctly. The orderly snorted and pulled him forward like a frustrated parent dragging his misbehaving child. "I'm serious. We should be keeping everyone here until we are told what is going on out there."

Frank scoffed. "What's this 'we', Tyler? _You_ are a patient-"

"_I_ am a police officer. Trust me, this is not a good plan. For all you know, the checkpoint is compromised. You know better than me these patients will not let a chance to escape pass them by. There could be a gas leak or-" Sam stopped when he realized another orderly had beaten them to the door and was already sliding out his key and pulling open the door.

"No!" Sam shouted, but too late.

Through the open door came a flood of smoke, black and thick. Proving his ineptitude, the orderly at the door gave a frustrated cough and opened the door further, looking for the origin. Already having overtaken the checkpoint room, more smoke streamed into the common room, seeking a new domain.

Sam coughed and pulled Frank towards the floor and the cleaner air as everyone in the room began to panic.

"Close the door and everybody get down on the floor!" Sam shouted.

Only a few, including the orderly at the door paid him any heed. Everyone else began running about like chickens with their heads cut off, patients panicking and trying to hide or escape and orderlies attempting to maintain control in the smoky chaos. Somebody must have gone floundering to a wall and hit a switch for the lights went out, leaving only a few small streams of light through the closed window shades from the setting sun. Sam was surprised it was evening already. How could he have slept so long? What had they been sedating him with?

Sam sighed then noted his orderly was still there, looking quite overwhelmed.

'Well now we know he's more of a taking orders guy than a leader.' Truthfully this was more useful, as long as he started taking Sam's orders.

"How many people in the west wing?" he questioned.

"Wha-? Oh, uh, not many. It's all offices and therapy rooms down there. And most of the doctors are gone for the day, you know that."

Sam did not.

"So there's nothing down there that might have… exploded on its own? Ethanol lab? Kitchen? Garage maybe?"

"No," the orderly answered with a helpless shake of his head. "Yer not even allowed ta' light a fag in 'ere. This place is supposed to be safe as houses."

"Then somethin' deliberate is goin' on," he concluded. "Look, we've got to get everyone out of here. They're in danger. We've got to get them out and us to a phone. Call the police and the fire department."

The orderly looked about to agree when a shadow past over his face. "No way. It's not secure out there! Every person in here is a danger to the community. Murderers, molesters, terrorists… Nuh uh. I'm not lettin' you lot run free," the orderly replied, but he was choking on the thickening black smoke that was still seeping through the cracks in the back door.

"They don't deserve to suffocate," Sam countered. "Besides, this is a place for the criminally insane. I don't care what year it is, out there you're gonna have a lobby that is locked and past that will be a gated perimeter, right? Your job is to protect these people and right now, that-" Sam stabbed a finger towards the back door. "And whatever's goin' on out there is what they need protecting from."

The orderly hesitated, stunned by Sam's emphatic speech. Apparently he wasn't used to speaking to patients who could logically debate an issue. His eyes were big as he ran through the consequences of doing what a convicted killer told him. In the end, the orderly moved to the front door.

"Everyone please come this way. We will exit to the lobby now," the orderly commanded, shouting over the chatter and the smoke alarm that had only just begun to sound.

Squinting thought the smoke and breathing through his shirt, Sam helped to usher several people towards the opening door. He was about to go himself when a pair of hands clapped him on the shoulders and spun him around. It took him a moment in the dark, but his eyes widened when he recognized Charles, who he could have sworn had not been in the room when this whole thing started.

"Charles? Where did you come from?"

"Not important. Not at all," Charles buzzed. "What is important is that we hurry!"

With a strong yank, Sam was pulled several steps towards the back door before he could twist free.

"Whoa, mate, what are you doin'?"

Charles looked at him, puzzled by the question. "Escaping. And you said you wanted in!"

"What?" Sam looked in horror towards the smoking door. "No, not like this-"

"Sam, this is it! Our chance. Another's unlikely to arise any time soon after this," Charles urged. He stepped in, putting his face uncomfortably close as if he was about to reveal the secret of the universe and pointed to the back door. "Out there is the truth. Facts and evidence and… facts! You can either go with me out the east wing or stay here, let them pump you full of ideas and lies 'til you become the person they all think you are."

Sam hesitated. This was bad. Convicted or no, he was a police officer. He would get into big trouble for breaking out. But on the other hand no answers seemed forthcoming in here. Charles had been the most useful person he'd met in days and it just seemed wrong letting him go.

"Fine," Sam conceded.

"Good!" Charles almost giggled with excitement as he charged for the back door. Sam followed close behind lest he lose sight of the man. Charles gave a triumphant little "ta-da!" and pulled out a mysterious key from his waistline then jammed it into the lock. Sam did not even want to know how he'd gotten that.

"Is that all of them?"

Sam barely heard the question over the blaring fire alarm and he glanced back to the front of the common room where he could barely make out two figures partly silhouetted in the open doorway.

"I think so," sad a second voice. "I'll do one more sweep. Can't see a damn thing in this smoke. Where's the lights?"

Behind Sam, Charles finally unlocked the door. With a barely visible grin, he grabbed Sam by the arm.

"Hold your breath," he exclaimed. And then Sam was being pulled into a blanket of smoke and down to the floor.

The checkpoint room was small, couldn't fit more than 3 or 4 people at a time, but filled with swirling smoke as it was Sam could hardly make out the far walls even though he was crouched on the floor. What in hell had Charles done to get so much smoke? There had to be a fire blazing somewhere. Rubber burned pretty thick, but it didn't smell quite like this.

"Got it!" He heard Charles shout and following his voice, Sam crawled through the door and into the east wing. As soon as they were through, they shut the door behind them, coughing haggardly for a few moments. Then Charles tapped Sam on the shoulder and motioned down the hall. "Come on, Sammy boy! We're not out yet!"

Still filled with doubt, Sam chased after Charles who tore down the hallway as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Luckily no one else seemed to be in the hall. The east wing, Sam knew, was three stories of cell blocks. They seemed vacant now and Sam had to wonder where all the residents were. Only a very few had been in the common room. The rest were probably in the cafeteria. Or out in the yard for their last allowance of sunlight for the day.

"Is that why you planned for this to happen now?" Sam questioned as Charles led them to a locked staircase and fiddled with his key again. "So there'd be minimal staff and patient witnesses?"

As the door creaked open, Charles paused to look quizzically back at Sam. "You think _I_ did this?"

Sam frowned, taken aback. "You didn't?"

"Pfft! No," Charles laughed as he turned and dashed for the stairs. "I'm just rollin' with the punches!"

They reached the second floor and kept going.

"But you said you had a plan!"

"My plan was to bribe an orderly! Not to blow a hole in the wall and have a team of gunman come in!"

"You saw people with guns?" Sam exclaimed.

"Oh, yeah. I was in a session in the west wing. Doc's last patient of the day… There was an explosion and the doctor told me to wait, but I looked. Outside there were three guys in black. They were lookin' for someone." Charles hesitated, disturbed by the memory. "Doc didn't know, so they shot him and they just went on their way. Soon as they went into a room to search, I took off. I was not stayin' for that, no sir. I don't know what you're involved in, Sam, but it's a little too high profile for me!"

"Me?" Sam questioned. "They were looking for me?"

"Didn't I mention that?"

"No!"

Sam's mind spun even as he and Charles whirled around to ascend the final staircase. He hardly noticed as they past the door labeled '3' in favor of one that wasn't labeled at all and entered a narrow staff hallway.

Men with guns and explosives had blown their way into a mental institution to find _him_? Why?

"Here," Charles was shoving a pair of folded up pants and a black collared shirt his way. "It's the staff's. I'm sure they won't mind. Can't go out to the real world in hospital dress now can we?"

Sam wanted to argue that they didn't have time, that there were men with guns and hospital staff all around who could walk in on them at any time, but Charles was right. Quickly he changed into the brown pants –a little too large for him- and tossed on the black collared shirt over his loose hospital shirt. He snagged the pair of shoes from the same cubby Charles had gotten Sam's other stolen clothes and shoved them on with abandon. Charles was right behind him and then only because he'd decided he needed to put on a navy blue tie over his white striped blue shirt. With a triumphant smile, Charles took off again, Sam right behind him. They burst through yet another door and were met by blinding light from a floodlight. They were on the roof, three stories high, and it was night.

Charles ushered Sam out of the light and towards the edge of the roof.

"Charles," Sam called over the blare of the fire alarm sirens. If it had been another time, Sam might have scoffed at the poor positioning of the louder fire alarm on the roof of the building. Now he had a more pressing question. "Why are we over here? The fire escape's on the other side!"

"We're not using the fire escape," Charles replied.

"Why the hell not?" Sam questioned nervously as he peered over the edge. A gust of wind picked up out of nowhere as if trying to urge the two men over the side and to their deaths. Sam shuffled back a bit and began buttoning his shirt. Charles scoffed at him as if it were obvious.

"Well A) they're more likely to be watchin' that and 2) it's on the wrong side of the building. Look." Charles crouched at the edge and pointed downwards and towards their right. "Over there is where those intruders blew up our little asylum. I'm willing to bet over there is also how they go on the premises."

"A hole in the fence," Sam concluded.

"Exactly. They gave us our way out."

Sam had to admit, he was impressed. Charles had a much more logical mind than he gave him credit for. And it was so simple a deduction he was almost ashamed that he himself had been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to think of it.

"Ok, then. How are we getting off the roof?"

Charles looked up at him with a grin then pointed to a three inch wide metal pipe that had been bolted into the brick wall. Sam swallowed hard. The pipe was probably just a casing for electrical wiring. The bolts weren't made to support the weight of a grown man. Unfortunately Sam didn't have any better ideas. The brick wall had no other handholds.

Sam took a deep breath. "All right, but one at a time. It won't hold the pair of us."

Charles grinned wider, like a child who'd just been told he could play in the big kid playground and swung his legs over the side. "Me first!"

With a little too much gusto Charles grabbed the pipe and slid off the side. Panicked at Charles's lack of concern for his own well being and lack of consideration for the fragility of the bolts that had to survive both Charles and Sam's descent, Sam dropped to his belly and grabbed the pipe to support it.

"Be careful!" Sam scolded. The pipe shuddered as Charles paused his ungraceful descent to roll his eyes at Sam.

"Don't be such a buzz kill!" he hissed.

Charles's climb took only a minute and before Sam really wanted it to be, it was his turn.

"Why do I let myself get talked into these things?" he questioned as the pipe shifted. Beneath him, Charles huffed impatiently.

"Come on. Come on!"

Sam ignored him. He was still two stories up and the last thing he wanted was to let his mind wander or for his hurrying to-

Beneath him, a pair of bolts groaned unhappily and pulled part way out of the cement between the bricks. Sam gasped and clung harder to the pipe, frozen.

"Careful!" Charles called.

"Not helping, Charles!" Sam shouted back. For a moment he remained quite still, getting his wits about him, and then he started to slide down again. He'd gotten only another meter when two of the bolts snapped. With a low reverberating groan, the pipe pulled away from the wall, first only by half a dozen centimeters, then, as more bolts gave way, it broke away further and further. Sam shouted in surprise as the pipe bent, the cables inside snapped, and the ground came up to meet him far too fast.

For the last story Sam Tyler was in free fall. His only consolation was that the cables had lowered him that extra half story before they broke and that he would be landing on beaten down soil instead of cement. Still, he hit the ground hard and even though he bent his knees and dropped into a shoulder roll to absorb the impact, it still hurt like hell.

His shout of pain echoed loudly and as he lay on his back, clasping his ankle, he realized that the alarm had been silenced and all floodlights in the area had gone off. Charles appeared above him.

"I guess we know what kinda cables that pipe was hiding, eh?" Charles held out a helping hand. "We gotta go. We've got more time, but less time too. And since we didn't have any time to begin with, I guess it all evens out to nothing, huh?"

Sam clasped the offered hand and let Charles pull him to his feet. "I'm fine, thanks," Sam grumbled, keeping his weight off his twisted ankle. He was pretty sure he could still walk, but it hurt like hell.

"Yes, good, now we can go!" Charles hissed. With a tug that set Sam stumbling, Charles hurried ahead leaving Sam to limp after him as quickly as he was able.

They reached the fence and found the hole quickly. It had been a professional job. Wire cutters had sliced a pull back gap in the two layers of chain link fence. After he'd climbed through, he dared a look over his shoulder. Even in the darkness of the night, Sam could still see the seven foot hole in the eerily dark east wing. The whole section had lost power it seemed. Probably the whole building, though he couldn't tell from there. He just hoped the telephone lines were still intact and that Frank had called for help by now.

He only spared another moment before Charles hissed for him to hurry and Sam turned away to limp off into the night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Now the fun can really begin. Let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter IV: Mens Rea

Author's Note: Thanks to DanaCartwright, zipmfxritt, and Xiilnek for their reviews!

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**Chapter 4: Mens Rea**

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Gene stood on the charred grass outside King's Park Psychiatric for the Criminally Insane looking into the west wing through a hole in the wall. There was a scowl on his face that set deep lines on the man's forehead. A dozen uniformed police officers were mulling about the area setting up lines and looking for evidence. Among them were several CID members. Hopefully helping to coordinate this mess, Gene thought angrily.

Ray appeared at his side, shielding his eyes with his hand. Gene lifted a lofty eyebrow.

"Am I looking particularly hideous today, DS Carling?" Gene questioned.

"Sorry, guv. It's just so bright," Ray replied.

"Late night?"

"Yeah, guv. Met a plonk at the pub who could really hold her liquor so-"

"Yer gonna have to save it, Ray. Now is unfortunately not the time," Gene told him with a wave of his hand. Turning from the gaping hole, Gene pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket and scanned the crime scene. "What have you got?"

"Not much. There's woods for at least a kilometer in all directions, but we did find footprints and tracks in the mud not far from here. Car tracks. We're thinkin' they're from the car or whatever the terrorists used to get away in."

"And get here in the first place," Gene huffed. Terrorists wasn't a term he'd used for the invaders before, but it worked. He paused to light a cigarette. "What else?"

Ray looked down to a notepad he carried, trying to decipher the scribbled notes. 'Sam Tyler would've been proud,' Gene thought. 'If he wasn't so busy bein' a flippin' lunatic.'

"Well there there's the fence that had been cut with cutters-"

"Which tells us nothin'. And?"

"And, uh, the hole in the wall," Ray ended with a half-hearted motion. "We're getting' the bomb squad down here to see if they can make anything else of it. But that's about it."

"About it or really it?" Gene questioned hotly.

"Really it, guv. For now," he added quickly, in an attempt to appease his fuming superior.

Gene threw the unfinished fag to the ground and stomped it out angrily. "They left a two meter calling card in the bloody wall and we still have nothin'! What do they have to do? Walk up to you and hand a signed letter of confession?" Gene shouted.

Ray didn't meet his eyes, ashamed. Gene signed after a moment then continued, quieter.

"How're the search teams?"

"They're split up, guv. Got one followin' the footprints, but it gets hard fast. The dogs should be up soon. Then we'll know where the runaways went."

"What's the final count on the escape artists?" Gene asked.

Behind them, Chris appeared, stepping through the hole in the wall with Dr. Loytta right behind.

"Four, guv," Chris answered.

"No, no, it's just three," Loytta corrected snootily. "They found Johnson hiding in an office cabinet."

"And who were the others?" Gene questioned.

Loytta lifted his nose unhappily in Gene's direction. "There's Matthew Paris, who I'm sure will turn up. He's done this before on a smaller scale. He just hides then pops back. Has nowhere else to go, you know. And no ambition. He's reformed quite a bit, but he's still quite ma-"

"And the other two?"

"And a man by the name of Charles Dominic and -"

"Sam Tyler," Gene finished. He turned a glare towards the hole in the brick, the surprised expressions of Chris and Ray going unnoticed. "Dammit all!"

"Quite," Loytta agreed calmly as he checked his watch.

"Was anybody hurt?" Gene asked after a moment.

"We've a few patients and staff who inhaled too much smoke and a few patients hurt attempting to escape through a barred window in the lobby. Nothing serious."

"Did anyone see these intruders?" Gene asked.

"Oh, yes. There was a group trapped in the lobby. Apparently the intruders came right up to them and asked them a few questions."

Gene lifted an eyebrow incredulously but the doctor just nodded confirmation. The man seemed quite unperturbed by the whole situation beyond the disruption it was causing in his schedule.

"You didn't see 'em yerself, Loytta?" Gene questioned gruffly.

"Oh no," Loytta replied, sounding aghast at the idea. "I had already headed home for the evening."

Gene nodded critically. He hated uptight, snobby, college pricks. They always thought they knew everything and hated putting in more than the minimal amount of effort required.

"I'm going to need a list of everyone who was on duty yesterday and this morning," Gene ordered.

Loytta glared at him, displeased at being given commands, but nodded. "I'll get right on it."

Gene turned away. "How's Cartwright doin', Chris?"

The young man shrugged. "Nearin' the end of her interviews with everyone who'd been in that lobby. PC MacDonald is backin' her up. I think you were right though, guv. They did seem more open to talkin' with a plonk."

"'Course I'm right," Gene replied. "An' by now someone musta spilled their guts about what they saw last night. Maybe I'll be promoting a woman over this since she's the only one getting' anythin' done 'round here. Ray, you get what you can from those tracks. Chris… you go back to whatever you were doin'."

"But I'm done, guv," Chris said quickly.

"Then go with Ray. I'm gonna go have a chat with Cartwright and when I come back I'd very much like to know if Sam Tyler and Charles Dominic hopped into the getaway car with the bombers," Gene ordered with another glare at the hole in the wall.

"I hope you find them soon, Mr. Hunt. For their own sake and the sake of anyone around them," replied the doctor. Honestly, Gene thought he'd left already. "They were both on medication for their conditions. It is essential we find them, especially Sam Tyler, before it wears off."

"What'd you have him on?" Gene asked, scowling at the idea of pumping people full of drugs and calling it medicine.

Loytta saw this and adjusted his glasses. "Sam Tyler, as you know, had no notable prior history of severe violence, but something in him snapped, Mr. Hunt. This can happen when a person is under a great deal of stress and people who are already damaged –by a concussion from a prior car accident for example- are more susceptible. Even with the sedatives and therapy sessions, he's had bouts of violence during his stay. Without them…." Loytta let the sentence hang ominously.

Gene started stonily back at the doctor. He knew what the doctor was saying; If Sam wasn't found and treated, he could kill again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"You know," Sam replied, rubbing his eyes. "I'm getting tired of just suddenly waking up and not knowing where I am or how I got there."

Sam sat on an old beaten up mattress, his back propped against a cool wall of stone. He was in a small room dimly lit by a single bulb. It reminded him of a walk-in closet. And maybe it had been once upon a time, but it seemed so old and unkept now, he doubted anyone had used it in years. Except maybe Charles.

The afore mentioned crouched before Sam, an amused smile on his face. Sunlight filtered in from some unseen window behind Charles through the half open doorway.

"We crashed here last night, remember? After our Great Escape? Lovely old condemned building?"

"No, not really," Sam grumbled. He felt groggy, stiff, and irritable. Charles held out a hand and helped Sam to his feet.

"Well, you're not thinkin' hard enough then," Charles told him as Sam tested his ankle. The damage it had taken in the fall the night before seemed to have mostly healed. Sam sighed.

"Or maybe I don't remember, 'cause this is all in my head," he countered. Charles handed him his stolen collared shirt and tipped his head curiously.

"How do ya' figure?"

Sam slid his arms into the sleeve and adjusted the shirt with a shrug. "Because, Charles, when you're in a dream, you often jump from place to place and time to time. It might seem natural at first, but when you start to think about it, you can't remember actually getting there," he told the man matter-of-factly. "That's when you realize you're dreaming."

Charles chuckled and motioned for Sam to follow him out. "That's true enough. In your case, however, I'm bettin' it's the stuff they drugged you up with."

"Drugs?" Sam questioned.

"Or maybe your mind was just elsewhere," Charles continued, waving his hand vaguely as they stepped out of the closet and into a larger room that reminded Sam of an abandoned factory. The area was only about two meters high, but something close to 15 meters wide. He was less interested in scenery, however, and more interested in what Charles had said. He reached out and grabbed the man by the shoulder.

"What drugs?" he demanded.

Charles rolled his eyes. "They call it medication," he said. "You've gotta wonder though. And when you wonder, your mind wanders. Wandering wondering minds… What did you see when your mind wandered, Sam?"

Sam glared at Charles in growing annoyance. "Nothing."

"Oh, I highly doubt that."

"What is it with you?" Sam growled. "Ever since I met you you've acted as if you know more than you say." Sam stepped up close to Charles as what had started as mere frustration began to boil into something more dangerous. "I want answers."

"I'm sure everybody does at this point," Charles replied vaguely.

" 'Everybody' who?" Sam questioned hotly with a gesture to the empty space around them. Without warning, Sam's other hand shot out and pressed the taller man back against the wall. Charles grabbed at Sam's hand, eyes wide in fear even as Sam's blazed. "Tell me, who you really are in all of this?"

Charles choked and Sam found his lip curling back as if in pleasure at the man's distress. And why shouldn't he be pleased, really? Mr. Charles had been nothing but a nuisance since they'd had the misfortune of meeting.

"Sam, please!" Charles sputtered.

"The truth, Charles. No more of your inane riddles," Sam hissed.

"Not riddles-" Charles choked. "I just know what I know."

At the unsatisfying answer, anger flooded though Sam that put anything he'd felt previously to shame. It was a pure, white hot rage that felt so incredibly alien, it made him halt his murderous action of grabbing Charles by the head and snapping his neck with a twist. Instead, he blinked confusedly at Charles.

"Yeah, maybe you are in a dream, but not the way you think. I think we can help each other, but first you gotta decide if you want to wake up," Charles said earnestly. "Please, Sam. Is this who you are?"

Sam's eye twitched and again the urge to dispose of this nuisance of a man threatened to overwhelm him. Charles trembled in his grip, but kept his eyes locked on Sam. Sam wasn't seeing him, however. Sam's gaze had turned inward. He remembered being crouched over the body of a murdered police officer. He remembered being at another murder scene with Gene. He recalled with something worse than clarity that he was responsible. He remembered feeling pleased and some spark of sanity left inside him recoiled at the thought and with that small moral reaction the murderous anger dwindled. Dwindled, but did not disappear, Sam noted with disgust.

Sam released Charles who also seemed a bit more relaxed.

"I'm sorry. I … This isn't me," Sam said, confusion clear. "I don't understand," he said as he turned away. "How can I be-"

Sam stopped short as he came right in line with a revolver. The man holding it wore a serious expression and he wasn't alone. Two other men had somehow also entered the room and gone unheard and unnoticed until now. They weren't reading him and Charles their rights, so they weren't plain clothed detectives. Had they stumbled into some gangs territory?

One of the strangers, a second man with a gun and dressed in a brown jacked looked beyond Sam.

"All right, boss?" he asked, his northern accent faint, but distinguishable.

"It's fine," came Charles's voice from behind. Sam turned to gawk as Charles put a hand on his shoulder. "He's –uh- he's with me."

The northern gunman frowned. "Didn't look it."

"It's fine, Fischer," Charles declared firmly. The two held steady gazes for a few moments, then Fischer broke it with an accepting nod. Charles nodded back then turned to the closer gunman with a grin. "Didn't think, you'd come yourself, Arthur."

Arthur, a tall but scrawny young man grinned back and clasped hands with Charles. "How could I not? Don't think any of us were expecting your call. How'd the asylum treat ya'?"

Charles shrugged, expression grim. "Better than prison. But we'll talk later. Let's get outta here first."

"Him too?" Arthur questioned with a dubious nod towards Sam, who stood quietly, still flabbergasted at the whole affair.

"Yeah, him too. Sam and I escaped certain death together."

Arthur nodded understanding. "Oh yeah, we heard about that. I can't believe they broke into an asylum to get you. You were lucky, mate."

At this new information, another flare of anger coursed through Sam, but he managed to keep it in check. Charles sensed Sam's eyes go to him and cleared his throat.

"You came in two cars?" the man asked quickly.

"Yeah. Like you said."

"All right, you go. We'll meet you later. Don't want any heat on you if we get caught by the police before hand," Charles told the others.

Arthur looked confused. "Dom, wouldn't it just be safer if we drove and you two hid-"

"Just do it, Arthur. Now."

Arthur frowned, glanced suspiciously at Sam, then nodded. "All right," he conceded. "Key'll be in the car."

And with that, the four strangers left. Sam managed to wait until they were out of earshot before he turned an inquisitive glare at Charles. Charles stepped away from him, looking nervous.

"Now, Sam. I'm sure you've got a few questions-"

"Yes! Starting with one in particular: The gunman in the institution you said were after me, they were really after you?"

"Well… you wouldn't have come with me if I'd said they were after me!" Charles exclaimed defensively.

Sam cursed and spun away to pace furiously. He'd gone with Charles because he'd hoped he could find evidence to clear his name. He did not want to be in the middle of anything else right now, but he was still curious.

"Who are you? What did you do to end up in an institution for the criminally insane?" he asked.

Charles sighed. "My name is Charles Dominic. I'm the leader of a… group."

"A group?" Sam echoed, crossing his arms.

"Yes. And because of … certain things my group is… involved in, I ended up there," Charles continued vaguely, waving his hands expressively.

Sam waited a moment for Charles to elaborated, but the man seemed to have no intention of doing so. Sam weighed the pros and cons of satiating his curiosity, then shook his head and headed for the door.

"That's not good enough," Sam replied with a wave. "Thanks for breakin' me out, I think. I'm still not sure that was the brightest idea on my part-"

"I know why you get so angry," Charles's voice called after him calmly.

Sam froze, eyes still on the door.

"It's not your fault, you know-"

"You said that before," Sam interrupted as he turned slowly back to face Charles. The man stood stiffly, his face partly in shadow as sunlight shown in through the windows behind him.

"I know you didn't kill those officers either," Charles added.

Sam tensed and tried not to flinch at the memory of warm wet blood dripping from his fingers.

"But you're not even sure anymore, are you?" Charles said slowly, only know realizing Sam's dilemma.

The DI looked ground-ward guiltily and for some reason found himself confessing. "I've got these memories… Fragmented scenes, but they feel so real. How can I be remembering these things if I'm innocent?"

Charles shook his head. "Look, mate, from what little I've read about you, you aint the killin' kind."

Sam looked up suspiciously. "What've you read about me?"

"Only what's in the newspapers. You're the new Manchester copper. A DI who plays by the rules and gets results. Sounds like you're doin' that department some good."

Sam wasn't sure if he should be feeling flattered or creeped out. Charles noticed this and chuckled.

"Anyway, the point is those killings weren't you and that savage anger? That weren't you either."

"How are you so sure?"

Charles gave a knowing little smile and a mad little laugh. "I've seen it before. It's not you, it's what they want you to be. It's the idea and you're making it part of you."

Sam didn't know what to make of that. He stood in silent contemplation –or confusion- as Charles approached him, then past him to stand between Sam and the exit.

"Come with me, Sam. I think we can help each other," Charles urged.

"You said_ that_ before too. I don't get it. You could've escaped that place on your own. You didn't need to bring me. What _do_ you need me for?" Sam asked.

"I can't explain that here, but if you come with me, I promise –I promise-," Charles looked at Sam dead on as he repeated himself. "I will tell you."

Sam searched the man's face. He seemed earnest enough. And though Sam had flipped out on him twice now, Charles was still willing to have him around. That was either brave or stupid and Sam could not decide which. He thought again of trying to make contact with his department, to try and convince them of his innocence… but what if that anger triggered again? What if they took him back in and he lost it and attacked Gene… or Annie…

The image of his hands around her neck flashed through his mind and he shivered. No, he couldn't go to them yet. Charles said he had answers. He would go with him.

After all, if Sam didn't like what Charles had to say, he could always kill him.

-.-.-.-.-

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To Be Continued...

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A/N: Let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter V: Ascending and Descending

Author's Note: It's here! Finally! Something about this chapter just wasn't coming together and had to rewrite it several times. I think it's finally all right. And the next chapter is already on its way. Thanks to LadyGreyTea, Xiilnek, zipmfxritt, and DanaCartwright for your reviews! Dana, you get your wish!

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**Chapter 5: Ascending and Descending**

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Sam was relieved and disappointed as he looked out the passenger side window. Old cars looking new, old buildings looking… well, less old, bright bell-bottom pants, patterned shirts with wide collars, and ridiculous side burns were all incontrovertible proof of what Charles had told him the previous day.

"1973," he muttered with a frown. "Then why did they tell me 2006?"

The car came to a sudden stop as Charles Dominic attempted his frightening version of parking while watching his passenger.

"You say something?" Charles asked, unmindful of the trash bin they'd just knocked over.

Sam watched the bin roll unhappily away to bump into the brick building before them, ignoring the question and replying with one of his own. "Where are we? Your secret hideout?"

Charles leapt from the car with a laugh, the sarcasm going right over his head. "Well, I certainly hope it's secret. Can't have the police bargin' in unannounced now can we?"

"Just a reminder," Sam replied with much less enthusiasm than his companion. "I'm with the police."

Charles scratched at his beard. "Yeah. But you're also with me now, mate."

"I'm here for the answers you promised," Sam replied stepping around the car. Sam never thought that he'd see the day he would allow himself to become associated with criminals. Not that he planned on helping Charles with anything, but it was the principle of the thing.

Charles brought him out of his thoughts by slapping a friendly arm around his shoulders. "And you'll get your answers. I gave my word. And a gentleman always keeps his word."

Sam shrugged off the overly energetic madmen. "Ah, yes, I forgot. You're a gentleman," he replied, humoring him as much as he could. "So then you can tell me why you know-"

"I'm positive I could, Sammy-boy. But the walls have ears you see," Charles said as he spread his long fingers ominously to the surrounding buildings. "First we go inside and spare a moment to get cleaned up. I for one could use a proper shave."

Although he hated to waste any more time, the idea of cleaning up appealed to him. He nodded and allowed Charles to usher him inside without protest.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Gene entered without a word what was, on a normal day in the nuthouse, the common room. Today, however, was not a normal day. A lone table sat in the center of the room, the others shoved off to the sides in a disorderly fashion. It was at that center table where all the action was.

W.P.C Cartwright sat with her back to Gene speaking softly to a man across from her. At her left, a chubby officer Gene recognized as P.C. MacDonald stood watch. MacDonald noticed Gene and gave him a respectful nod as he approached, but remained silent.

"We never saw their faces," the man Cartwright was interrogating was saying. "They wore those black ski-mask things. Smart o' them if you ask me. We got cameras round this place. Definitely woulda got their faces if they hadn't worn 'em. And, you know, if someone hadn't pulled out the reserve power cables on the roof by the east wing."

"Reserve power? Why were you on the reserve?" Annie asked sternly.

"Dunno, sweetheart. My guess is they blew out the main power on the way in."

"And you were in the lobby when the intruders found you?" she asked. Gene assumed he nodded. "Why?"

Gene came to a stop behind Annie and was noticed by the 'interrogated' for the first time. He wasn't a patient as Gene had assumed. His attire gave him away as an orderly. Upon seeing Gene, his before relaxed and friendly manner came a little more nervous.

"Well, when I heard the explosion from the west wing I, uh, I knew somethin' weird was goin' on. I figured… that there was a good chance the checkpoint wasn't secure, so I got everybody to the lobby where we could call for help." The man's eyes shifted about the common room as he explained.

"Everyone but Sam Tyler," Annie corrected.

"I don't know how he coulda got out!" the orderly exclaimed defensively. "The checkpoint door was locked an' none of us was missin' a key!"

Not the type to let others do the questioning when he was present, Gene stepped forward and leaned on the table. Annie was startled at his appearance, but greeted him with a quick 'Guv'. He nodded and looked back to the man.

"Seems like you did a lotta plannin' ahead, Mr…?"

"Reckson. Frank Reckson, sir," the orderly filled in nervously.

"All right, Frank," Gene repeated. "You thought to get everyone into the safety of the lobby. So apparently yer a smart guy, yeah?"

Frank looked away with what Gene thought was a dubious expression. "Yeah, apparently," he echoed.

"Except for lettin' Sam Tyler go."

Frank nodded uncomfortably.

"What about Charles Dominic?" Gene asked.

At his side, Annie looked at her superior officer questioningly. She felt a little put out at his appearance. When the DCI had asked her to interrogate the witnesses, she knew it was because he thought they'd talk to a woman more than they'd talk to a man. She'd chosen not to feel insulted –it was too easy to feel insulted as a female police officer- and instead chose to take it as an opportunity to prove herself a useful asset.

That and she had hoped to find out more about Sam's case. All she knew was that Sam had had some kind of mental break and admitted to killing three police officers. She had to admit that Sam having a break down did not seem overly far-fetched. From day one Sam had seemed stressed and a little crazy, but she thought he'd been getting better and had hoped that maybe they could move on from the aftereffects of Sam's accident. But something had made Sam crack.

Cracked or no, however, Annie didn't believe Sam was capable of murdering those men. He just didn't have it in him.

But that wasn't the purpose of the interrogations. She looked up at Gene looming over the table. She'd been doing just fine by herself, but now that he had shown up, she knew she would not be getting in much more questioning herself. Her gentle brows creasing in a frown that was both curious and annoyed, she looked to Frank, waiting to see where Gene was going with the introduction of this new name.

"Charles? What about him? He wasn't in the common room when this all happened," Frank replied in confusion.

"You're sure?' Gene questioned.

"Yeah. He had a session with his doctor about that time. And that's what I told the intruders," Frank answered.

"They asked about Charles Dominic?" Gene asked.

"Yeah. They were adamant. And- and I didn't wanna tell 'em, but they had guns and I had to think of the patients-"

"And your own ass," Gene growled. "What else did they say?"

"Nothin'! That's it. They just wanted to know where Charles was."

"Hmph," was Gene's reply as his eyes searched the bemused orderly. "Was Sam ever seen talkin' with Charles?"

The orderly chuckled. "More like the other way around. Before Tyler came in Charles was the kind who sat by himself, one o' those quiet types that you wonder about. For some reason Charles took a liking to Tyler. He was always chattin' his ear off. We all thought it was probably good for him. Charles had an outlet and Tyler got his punishment for killin' police officers, heh."

Gene stared at Frank intently through the explanation, then straightened and crossed his arms. "How well did you know Sam Tyler?"

Again the orderly looked surprised. "Didn't know 'im at all, did I? Was just assigned to him sometimes. Brought him to the common room a few times, to the cafeteria, to his therapy sessions. It's funny. Some patients calm down after the sessions, but not Sam Tyler. He tended to come out in either a daze or a rage. Major anger issues that one."

Annie looked away. That didn't sound like the Sam she knew. It was just wrong…

"Took him to see his visitor too. Not a good idea," Frank continued. "The lunatic nearly lost it on the poor old guy."

Annie looked back to Frank questioningly. "He had a visitor?"

She'd been the one to make calls to the institution and found out that DCI Litton had never made it in to see Sam. They hadn't mentioned any other visitors, but then again, she'd only asked if any officers had been in to see him.

"Oh yeah," Frank answered. "The man said he was an acquaintance or somethin', but Tyler didn't even recognize him."

"Who was he? What did they talk about," Annie questioned, her bright eyes shining intently. Gene just watched them, strangely silent.

"Dunno. Didn't say an' I didn't much care. The man gave him a letter, nearly got himself beat up by Tyler, an' left. An' afore you ask: no, I didn't see what it said," the orderly replied.

Annie was a little disappointed, but then again, she wasn't really sure what she'd expected would come out of a nameless visitor and a letter. The orderly watched her, a little disappointed himself it seemed. Then his eyes brightened.

"Tyler did mention a name right after he read it," Frank put in. "It was uh.. Conan. Or Calloway? Somethin' like that. Oh, wait! Callahan!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers victoriously.

Annie tipped her head curiously and reached for her pen. She paused a moment however when she noticed that Gene had gone quite still and in his eyes she was sure she saw recognition. When Gene didn't speak though, Annie shook her head, thinking she must have misinterpreted the expression. Instead she looked over to the tape recorder which still whirred along happily then back to the notepad she'd been keeping.

"You're sure, Mr. Reckson?"

"Very," Frank replied with confidence. "I remember 'cause it was the name of a character on tele I like."

"Anythin' else _relevant_ you wanna add?" Gene questioned sharply.

Frank's brows creased in thought. "That's really it. There's only four things I know about Sam Tyler: he's violent, smart, has at least one person that'd visit him in the crazy house, and thinks he's a ruddy time traveler!"

Annie's eyes went wide. Sam told someone else about his time traveler delusions? He really hadn't gotten any better at all since his arrival in Manchester.

"How do you mean?" That was Gene and the intensity in his voice surprised her. She'd expected the DCI to laugh or make some boorish comment on how ridiculous that was, not inquire further into the matter.

Frank scowled at the question, as if he hadn't meant to say what he had. "The time travel thing? It's nothin'. Honestly."

"You didn't say it fer no reason, Frank," Gene growled, speaking the name like a threat.

"No, it's just somethin' I saw, ok? I was deliverin' Dr. Loytta's notes to his office an' I just sorta skimmed through. Mentioned somethin' about Tyler thinking he's from 2006 or some nonsense. So one time Tyler asked me the year and I told him 2006! It was pretty funny," the orderly said timidly as he tried to gauge whether or not the police officers were as amused as he obviously felt. "You shoulda seen his face-"

Gene wasn't laughing and his stony aura had Frank trailing off. At the DCI's side, Annie was a little shocked.

"Did he," she started hesitantly. "Did he tell you about 2006?"

"No. That's it. That's all. Really!"

"You're sure this time?" Gene questioned.

"Yeah. Cross my 'eart!"

Gene glowered. "You'd better hope I don't find out you're withholding anything else," he said, his voice low and threatening. And with that he turned towards the door. "We're done here. MacDonald, report back to Sergeant Carling. Cartwright, you can head back to the station an' start typin' up your report."

And with that Gene stormed towards the checkpoint. Annie watched him a moment in bewilderment, then snatched up her notepad and tape recorder and hurried after him.

"Guv… Shouldn't we be trying to find out more about this Callahan DI Tyler mentioned?" she asked. "And we should try and find the letter. It seems suspicious that he receives this letter so soon before the break in. I could do some digging once I get back to the station-"

"You'll do no such thing," Gene snapped vehemently.

Annie was stunned into silence, falling a few paces behind Gene. They entered the checkpoint and were waved through by a security officer on duty. They stepped through into the long hallway. About 15 meters down a light shown through the person sized hole in the wall.

"Guv," Annie dared after a moment of building up her nerve. "Can I ask why not? It might help us find Sam and the other inmates. And if it turns out they're connected, we might be able to figure out who tried to kidnap a man out a mental hospital-"

Gene heaved a long loud sigh and turned a stern eye on his WPC.

"Oh, they're connected all right," Gene replied, surprising Annie. He led her into an empty office, closed the door, and took a long moment to size her up. "Yer not gonna leave this alone, are ya'…"

Annie didn't know how to respond. Any response might be construed as back talk and talking back to your superior officer was not looked upon lightly, especially by Gene Hunt. But she didn't have much time to think anyway because Gene was continuing.

"You're resourceful, Cartwright. A looker with a brain -a dangerous combination between you and me."

Annie watched her DCI quietly, not sure whether to be more surprised at the compliment or at what Gene might know about the two cases.

"It's 'cause of that that I'm gonna let you in. 'Cause I know if I don't tell ya', you're liable to go lookin' around anyway and that's far too dangerous fer you and fer everything," Gene continued.

Annie just nodded, mostly because she felt that anything she might say could cause Gene to change his mind.

"You will not repeat this to anyone, else this is the end of the line for you, got it?" Gene snapped. Annie nodded again, unsure if it was in fact an order or a threat. When Gene seemed finally appeased, he pursed his lips and moved to the door to pull down the shade over the window. "I'm gonna tell ya' the truth behind Sam Tyler and this thing with 2006."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam smiled, pleased with the results of the shave and shower. The man who smiled back seemed much more civilized than the dirty bedraggled wildman who'd stared back at him 20 minutes earlier. He still felt that inexplicable anger itching in the back of his mind, but for now it was under control.

He exited the bathroom and stepped into an elaborate guest bedroom. Queen sized bed, large oak dressers, and an ornate full length mirror were just the first things that had caught Sam's attention when he'd first entered. Now as he exited the bathroom and reached for his borrowed belt, the huge painting above the bed caught his eye. The complex and confusing overlapping yellow brick staircases reminded Sam of that never-ending staircase by Escher. Sam frowned, wondering not for the first time how a madman could afford all this.

"Intriguing, isn't it? It's hard to tell where one staircase ends and the other begins."

Sam whirled around at the sound of the voice and it took him several moments to recognize the man who stood there. Charles too had cleaned up. His shave had done away with the full scruffy beard, leaving behind only a set of long but well trimmed sideburns. His before stringy, greasy hair had been washed and slicked back. He was dressed in black slacks, a pressed white shirt, and a black waist coat. His new look gave him an air of prestige and sanity that he had certainly lacked in the asylum. For the first time since meeting him, Sam felt Charles could be a threat if he chose to be.

"It started about two months ago," Charles began suddenly.

"The painting?" Sam asked, not following.

"This story," Charles answered sternly. Then he paused and gazed thoughtfully towards the ceiling. "This part of the story anyway. There are so many 'stories' in a single story of life."

Apparently the suit and the shave hadn't completely cured Charles of his little eccentricities, Sam thought irately. Seeing the angry glint in Sam's eyes, Charles cleared his throat and motioned for Sam to follow as he headed back out the door. Sam stood still for a moment debating whether to follow and give Charles a chance to explain himself…

Or follow and _force_ Charles to explain himself.

Finally deciding on the more humane choice, Sam grabbed up the blood red shirt that had been left out for him and hurried after Charles. When Sam had caught up and had fallen in step with the other man, Charles continued.

"Your story is a jumbled one, Sam. Most people live their lives quite chronologically," Charles said. "You though, heheh, you woke up one day and realized you had started your life completely over again."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, well. I don't know about starting it completely over," Sam replied, thinking back to when he'd woken up in that vacant lot to find his jeep replaced with some old timer's car, his clothes replaced by something his father would wear, and his office belonging to somebody else. "I'm still the same age. Still have the same job. More or less."

"I'd say less," Charles replied with a small chuckle. "Especially now that you're a convicted lunatic."

Sam frowned. "Are we talking about the same thing?"

"I'm talking about your little bout of memory loss since waking up in the psych ward," Charles replied. "What are you talking about?"

'I'm talking about waking up in 1973,' Sam thought, but he replied, "Yeah… Me too."

Charles pursed his lips skeptically and led him down a short flight of stairs and into what looked like a main hall. There, Sam saw two of the gunman from earlier pacing about looking bored. Their guns weren't hidden, but placed in shoulder holsters for all to see. They must not be worried about being seen by any authority figures, Sam thought with a curious interest.

"Well, anyway," Charles continued. "Although being an anachronistic person could be very interesting if you like puzzles, I'm not exactly the puzzle piecing type."

"Could've fooled me," Sam muttered.

"And so I'm goin' ta' tell you the important story in this story of stories from the beginning," Charles finished as he unbuttoned his sleeves and began rolling them up. Eager for Charles to continue, Sam followed on his heels. They went down another flight of stairs, this one cement, thin, and claustrophobic. Sam tugged at his collar uncomfortably. The deeper into this building they went, the more Sam wondered why he hadn't just taken Charles aside earlier and forced him to speak then.

"Why exactly do we have to go down to the basement?" Sam questioned irritably. He wasn't sure how much more of this he was going to be able to take. It was getting hard to breath and his brain felt like it was on fire.

Charles ignored him and continued down the stairs. "This story starts a longer time ago than I'd like to admit, with a kid who made more money on the streets in a couple months than he would with a degree in a year. So this kid, he quits university and eh-"

"And he becomes a criminal. This kid doesn't happen to be an 'idea man' now, does he?" Sam filled in, pausing on the stairs to press a hand against the wall and then briefly his forehead. The cool cement felt like heaven.

Charles's blue eyes looked up brightly at him, childlike. "Yeah. How'd ya' guess?"

"Heard this story before from the criminal class. Always the same. Always about the money," he growled under his breath. Something was wrong. The fire in his head was dying down only to be replaced by an itch, an itch inside the skull that no amount of scalp scratching would reach.

Somewhere very far away he heard the faint sound of an EKG machine beeping fast and the sound of a woman's voice. _"There's a change. Doctor, come quick!"_

If Charles noticed his distress, he didn't show much concern beyond urging him to follow with a wave. "I guess that's what drives the majority of the world, yeah? Money. Power. People like to be in control."

Sam rubbed his pounding temples and staggered down the last few steps after Charles.

"Dammit, Charles, I don't care about yer… yer unhappy childhood or yer descent into the criminal underworld of Manchester," Sam shouted. He had reached the breaking point. He followed the man into the room at the base of the stairs, grabbed Charles roughly by the collar and forced him against the wall. "You promised me answers. Now be a 'gentleman' and tell me: Who killed those police officers? Why was I framed for it? An' what the hell do you have to do with any of this?"

Sam suddenly tensed as he identified the sound of the hammer being drawn back on a revolver. With a furious curl of his lip he glanced over his shoulder to see the scrawny young man, Arthur, with the loaded pistol not half a meter away.

"I told you this was a bad idea, Dom" Arthur said, addressing Charles.

Sam did not loosen his grip on the young man's boss. "Stay out of this, kid," the DI hissed. "Or-"

Before Sam could follow through with a rather malevolent threat, he sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun back to Charles in time to see the man's fist go for his face. In a flash, Sam let go of Charles's collar and got a hand up to block, but didn't see the knee until it was too late. With a vulgar curse that he couldn't really remember himself saying any time previously, Sam doubled over, leaving his back wide open for another strike from Charles. The man was surprisingly strong and the hit sent him to the floor with a moan.

"I'll spare you the pleasant, backstory monologue then, DI Tyler," Charles replied.

The light, cheerful tone that Sam had thought went hand in hand with Charles Dominic was gone now and Sam looked up at his attacker, surprised to see Charles serious, calm and collected. The man was rolling back up his sleeve which had come undone in the brief struggle. Arthur had come out of the shadows to stand protectively by his boss and intelligently out of reach of Sam. The DI was furious. He managed to get himself up to his knees, but Charles's black shoe came streaking in, impacting with his side and toppling Sam back to the cement floor.

Charles stared down at Sam calmly. "I've got a problem. It's like I said: people like to be in control. Especially of their own."

Sam chuckled callously from his curled up place on the ground. "Having domestic disputes, Mr. Charles?"

"Of a kind," Charles admitted matter-of-factly. "And to deal with them, I'm gonna need a cop."

Sam frowned, not comprehending. "What, those three officers weren't good enough for you? Was it you that had 'em killed? You that framed me?"

Charles motioned to Arthur and the young man circled around behind Sam.

"They didn't agree to help you and neither will I, you bastard," Sam continued with a sneer. The pain that had been coursing through his tired body now channeled into a new overwhelming wish for brutality and he gave a long, mad laugh. "Maybe I didn't kill those officers, but I am damn well goin' to kill _you_."

A mask of anger past over Charles's face and Sam found himself taking pleasure in the fact that he'd broken the new sane and calm air of Mr. Charles. Even if it was only briefly. Sam's opponent leaned in, his calm façade already restored and he spoke with a deadly seriousness. "You will help me. Already you're becoming something you thought you could never be, Sam Tyler. Let's just see what we can do about that."

Charles motioned to Arthur and before Sam could react, Arthur brought down the butt of his gun across the back of Sam's head, knocking him out cold.

-.-.-.-.-.-

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To Be Continued: All will finally be revealed.

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A/N: Let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter VI: Psychosis

Author's Note: Sorry for the wait, guys. I would've had this up yesterday, but my internet router is broken. I've never heard of that happening before! Anywho, I had to wait 'til I could get to a place with internet access. Supposedly it'll be fixed by Tuesday, but knowing my luck that's not likely. Hopefully this chapter isn't toooo strange. Thanks to zip, wolf, and Ellie for their reviews! ^_^

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**Chapter 6: Psychosis**

_*__definition- Psychosis__: a severe mental disorder in which contact with reality is highly distorted or lost._

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The first thing Sam noticed was the beeping of the EKG monitor. The second thing he noticed was the presence of the metal bars. The third thing he noticed was the dark, human shaped shadow that blocked out a blindingly bright light.

The fourth thing he noticed was that none of the previous things he'd noticed had seemed to exist at the same time. Now only that knowledge and the figure in shadow remained.

"Who's there?" Sam shouted, raising his arms to shield his eyes from the bright light.

"_You are not wrong, who deem_…" said the voice of the shadow. "_That my days have been a dream_."

"…What?" Sam questioned.

"_All that we see or seem; Is but a dream within a dream_."

Sam remained silent for a moment in confusion. Then finally he called out in question: "Charles?"

The bright lights inexplicably dimmed to an acceptable level and Charles stepped forward with that friendly yet mad grin Sam remembered from the asylum. He was dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, and a black tie which had replaced the vest he seemed to remember him wearing before. Sam was also pretty sure he should be feeling mistrustful of Charles, angry with him even… but he wasn't quite sure why.

"What's the last thing you remember, Sam?" Charles asked, as if he'd read the uncertainty in his mind.

Sam blinked slowly. "I dunno. … The roof of the asylum? No… there was a warehouse or something… and then a bathroom?"

Sam rubbed his face, clean shaven he noticed. He vaguely remembered that.

"Oh, good. You remember more than I thought you would," Charles replied simply.

"Where are we?" Sam asked. The big white space was quite disconcerting.

Charles lifted his arms in an all knowing gesture. "We are… in …" Charles floundered then looked back to Sam with a squint before jabbing a knowing finger in the surprised Sam's direction. "That's not what you really wanna ask."

"It's not?" Sam asked.

"No! You want me to continue my little story. Remember my story?"

Sam shook his head.

"No? Remember we were walking down the stairs? And I was telling you about _the story_," Charles urged. Still Sam hadn't a clue. "And then you tried to kill me?"

That had Sam taken aback. "What? No," he said shaking his head. You're… you're exaggerating."

"Sorry, Sammy. It's the truth. And that's why we're having this conversation like this."

Sam frowned and looked about. "You mean: in this… middle-of-nowhere place? Am I dead?"

"No more than you were before. See, I'm not actually here, Sam. I'm just here to translate," Charles explained.

"I thought you didn't like dealing with puzzles," Sam replied, trying to force down an increasing feeling of panic.

"Ha! You do remember!" Charles grinned.

Sam scratched his fingers through his hair. "Not exactly."

"Ok… Well here it is. First things first: There's a real Charles Dominic out there, so don't worry about that. Heh, you're not completely delusional. Just sort of delusional."

"I assume by 'out there' you don't mean 'in the next room'."

"Look around, Sam. There aren't any rooms. Rewind: After your little attack on my person, Arthur knocked you out. We dragged you to a cell that we'd had set up to deal with trouble makers," Charles said as he began to circle Sam.

Sam got a sudden memory of the betrayal and he stepped away from the man with a glare.

"You weren't just helping me out when you broke us out of the asylum. You never planned on tellin' me the truth. You just needed me for your own ends!" Sam exclaimed, still edging away.

"Sam, where are you going?" Charles asked with a wave of his arms. "You can't very well go anywhere, can you."

Sam glowered then searched the empty space around him, but Charles was right. There wasn't anywhere to go.

"Now," Charles said flatly. "I'm goin' to continue my little recap. Where was I… You attacked me. Knocked you out. Cell… Then you woke up and you weren't very happy about the matter. Wrenching at the bars like you could rip them out of the cement, name calling-"

"Hold on," Sam interrupted. "I woke up? I thought… I mean with this nothingness, I thought I must still be unconscious. I'm dreaming, right?"

"Oh, no. You woke up." Charles stepped right up to Sam and stared piercingly past his eyes and into his very soul. "You're awake and inside that cell right now."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Let me out!" Sam shouted. The DI threw himself recklessly against the metal bars of the cell. "You son of a bitch, let me out now and I'll make your death a quick one!"

Two adjacent walls of metal bars stood connected to two adjacent cement walls in the dank basement. Sam Tyler stood on the inside, seething and furious. On the outside, Charles stood with his arms crossed, watching him patiently with Arthur at his side.

"That's hardly incentive for me to let you out, is it?" Charles replied lightly.

"Dom, why is he still here?" Arthur complained. "He's not goin' to work for us. He's a loon. He's ten times crazier than you and I used to think you were enough of a handful."

Charles chuckled and looked to the uncomfortable young man at his side. "Is that any way to talk about the man who got you outta the gutter and transformed you into the useful member of society that you are today?"

Arthur shrugged. "Look at him, Dom. He isn't any use to us like this."

"No. Like this he's no use at all," Charles agreed. "But that's why he's down here." Charles turned his focus back on Sam. "You're here so we can drill some sense back into you!"

Sam's eyes blazed and he slammed his hands against the bars again. "I am going to take you down, Charles. Just you see. I'm gonna make you watch while I fillet your little underlings. And then it'll be your turn."

"You do what you gotta do, Sam," he replied evenly. "But first I'm gonna finish that story I started a little while back and by the time I'm done, I hope you'll have sobered up."

"Oh, I'm sober," Sam responded. "And I feel more level headed than I ever did before."

"That's ridiculous, Sam," Charles exclaimed, his sincerity giving Sam pause. "Look at yourself. What you are right now is not Sam Tyler, Detective Inspector of the Manchester Police."

-.-.-.-.-.-

Charles straightened his tie and with a frown.

"Right now you're more like Sam Tyler, Psychotic Murderer. You're gonna have to choose which it is you want to be."

Sam gripped his head in confusion. Was he in a cell? Or was he in the light? Was he full of an inexplicable murderous rage? Or was he just plain bewildered?

Sam stepped away from Charles. "I don't understand! How can I be in that cell, but also wherever the hell this is?"

"I'm no doctor, Sam, and neither are you, but as far as I can tell you've got some major dissociation going on right now, mate. Your new angry persona is literally taking control and leaving the rest of you high and dry," Charles replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And if you don't get a hold of yerself, the idea is gonna take you and split you in two."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam threw himself away from the bars and from Charles.

"Shut up!" Sam exclaimed, his head cradled in his hands. "Shut up, shut up!"

"Touchy subject, I see. That's understandable," Charles replied, slipping his hands casually into his pockets. "You just keep that thought on the back burner for now. You're in no mood for the truth o' that at the moment. So we'll take a few steps back, ey? Back about two months."

-.-.-.-.-

"Two months. You remember me tellin' you about that?" Charles asked as he paced calmly through the white space.

Sam scrunched his eyelids shut, demanding silently that he wake up from this nightmare, that he get a hold of himself and deal with this loss of contact with reality thing right then and there. Of course it wasn't that easy. When Sam opened his eyes, he was still staring at the Charles-with-a-tie in the 'nowhere space'. Charles was watching him, waiting for Sam to respond. With a sigh, he tried to concentrate. "I, uh…You started to tell me. Then you went off on some tangent about your childhood."

"It's not a tangent!" Charles snapped.

Sam held up his hands apologetically. "All right," he said. "Go on."

-.-.-.-.-

"Two months ago-"

"I'm not interested in your domestic drama or whatever, Charles," Sam snarled as he paced his cell.

"That's when the body of PC Richard Eames turned up dead by the docks," Charles continued, unheeding. "The police sniffed around for ages, but couldn't find any evidence of his killer."

"I remember," Sam said, his eyes gazing off into the distance. "The man's neck was slit, ear to ear."

"Oh, you remember, do you?" Charles asked.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam stared off into the empty white space. "Yeah… I remember him now. I was standing over his body…"

Charles lifted an eyebrow. "Right after you killed him?"

"No!"

-.-.-.-

"No!" Sam exclaimed, approaching the cell bars again. He was red in the face and he was seething, but there was honesty in his eyes that shown through past the madness. "I didn't kill him. I didn't kill any of them!"

-.-.-.-

"But I was on the case," the Sam of the 'nowhere space' replied suddenly. It was as if a fog was finally clearing. "I remember… Eames was found by the docks. Dead. There was nothing obvious about who'd done it or why he'd been in that particular part of town. CID was called in. I went down there with Gene and Chris and Ray… Nothin' turned up. His wallet was missing so it was declared a mugging gone wrong."

Charles-with-a-tie nodded gravely and continued. "Few weeks later, PC Joseph Binder turned up dead. He'd been shot twice in the chest."

"Binder had been looking into some illegal trafficking allegations by the docks," Sam said. He spoke quickly, pleased that some part of his memory was finally returning to him. "He hadn't reported anything official to his superior officers. Nothing official at all had been filed about his suspicions. All we had was hearsay from his coworkers."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"The most recent was PC Sanderson," Charles went on, watching Sam through the bars of the cell.

"Sanderson was a friend of Eames," Sam filled in. Actually getting answers seemed to be calming Sam's rage and whether he still wanted to kill Charles or not, Sam figured he should at least finish this little session of theirs. "Sanderson believed there was more to Eames's death than a mugging and accidental murder. He told other officers so. He told his superiors. He'd even come to Gene Hunt, but he…he didn't have anything substantial."

Sam struggled to recall the details, but the fog, it seemed, had receded as far as it was going to go. He glared at Charles. "We didn't have anything to connect the murders… But there was a connection, wasn't there Charles. You."

Charles stared stonily back at his prisoner.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam shook his head, turning his attention from the unending white back to Charles. "Did you do it? Did you frame me?" he asked quietly. "Charles… Are you on my side or not?"

Charles looked confused. "I'm on your side. Obviously. But just as obviously, I can't vouch for Charles Dominic."

"You are Charles Dominic!"

"Mate, you're not paying attention! I'm not Charles. I'm a part of _you_ that's still connected to the rest of your mind, to the part of you that is awake in that cell speaking with Charles Dominic."

Sam shook his head. If he had doubts to his insanity before, he didn't think he had many left now. "So you're not Charles."

"Just a representation. And until that man out there tells you that he's innocent, I can only speculate with what you already know. So. Did Charles murder those cops after failed attempts to get a policeman in his pocket? …."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Charles tugged at his waistcoat for the umpteenth time, stepped up to Sam's cell and shook his head. "I doubt you'll believe me in this state, but no, Sam. I did not kill those officers, nor did I have them killed. But you are right. I am the person that connected Eames, Binder, and Sanderson. It's my fault they're dead."

Sam sneered. "If it's your fault, whatever the reason, you're going to pay. I'll make you pay."

"Annnnd that brings us back to the 'back-burner' idea," Charles said spinning away. "You may be crazy now, but I've been wondering about the nature of it. See, I don't think you were crazy when you came into the asylum."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think, Sam, that you were thrown into the asylum after you were framed for the murder of those officers. I think that everyone thought you were a psychotic murdering bastard, like that Hunt chap did. Even the doctors. So when you went into yer little therapy sessions they planted the idea –accidentally perhaps- and after a while, you started to believe it yerself."

Sam chuckled. "They just told me I was a heartless murderer and I believed them? I think I've a little more willpower than that."

"It's far from that simple, Sammy-boy. See, ol' Doc Loytta, he likes using experimental therapies. He's not a huge fan of the electroshock, Stone Age stuff. Loytta is a modern man and the modern thing to use now is drugs. The doc puts his patients on sedatives and the like to make them more open to suggestion, then he digs for answers," Charles explained. "So picture this: Sam Tyler sittin' in the doc's office in that … ridiculous overstuffed armchair. Loytta wants to make Sammy better, so he tries to get Sam to tell him about the murders, about why he did 'em, and what had caused this behavior.

"Sammy, we know, hasn't committed any o' these murders so he denies it, holds fast to his innocence. But the doc keeps tellin' him, very calmly I'm sure –he was always very calm, 'Oh no, Sam. You killed those men. You killed those coppers. Why'd you do it? How?'" Charles paced a bit closer to Sam's cell. Inside, Sam watched him with a growing unease. "Sam, keeps denying, but being all drugged up on sedatives and tranquilizers makes the world seem a little skewed. Everything looks a little different. Words hit your ears at strange angles and when you hear the same words over and over again sometimes they begin to sink in. They begin to take hold and you start to think that those foreign words are actually your own words."

"But I don't think I'm a killer, you lunatic!" Sam exclaimed.

"You don't think you're a killer? You pretty much told me flat out that you thought you remembered murdering those men," Charles snapped back. "You've threatened to kill me and mine several times since you got here. No, Sam, this is very real and the idea is taking you. Your only hope is that there is some sane part of you left in there that can comprehend what I'm telling you, that can get a grip on yourself before it's too late!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam stood stock still in the white space. "I … don't believe it. I don't believe that just because somebody said I was a murderer that I would become one…"

Charles-with-a-tie crossed his arms. "It happens slowly, Sam. When a person is in those sessions, they are vulnerable mentally. It's not as if it'd be the first time a doctor has convinced his patient that he has or is something that he isn't. All it takes is for that one constant idea –the one everybody else is sure of- to take the smallest root in yer head."

Sam remained silent for several moments as he pondered the possibilities and whether or not there could be any truth to this. Suddenly Charles was at his side, slapping a hand on his shoulder.

"We both know that your mind is already in a fragile state, Sam," Charles replied. "You've been hit by a car and we're both…95%... well… maybe 80% positive that you are lying in a hospital bed in 2006, comatose."

Sam was surprised at how much the man knew before remembering that this version of Charles was apparently part of his mind.

"My point is your mind is already damaged," Charles said. "Medication and conviction are only gonna mess it up more."

"But if I'm in a coma, there is no medication," Sam replied, confused.

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"And if I'm not in a coma? If this is 1973?" Sam asked.

"Either way, your mind is falling to pieces, my friend. So get it together," Charles ordered. Then he spun in close and slapped his hands together with a resounding clap right in front of Sam's face, startling him. "Now!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

DCI Derek Litton slumped unhappily in the passenger seat of his DS's 1969 Ford with a scowl. He'd just come from the King's Park Psychiatric Hospital after finding out that there had been a break in the previous night. That someone had made their way into a mental hospital was no concern of Derek's, but that Sam Tyler had escaped most certainly was. Not that anyone at the Manchester Police Department had bothered to inform him or his team.

Derek cursed Gene Hunt under his breath. The man was an arrogant sod. How dare he withhold that information even after he'd been informed by Superintendent Tannon personally that the Tyler homicide case was his! Now his suspect was on the run and anyone that got killed in the process was going to be blamed on him. The media would have a field day!

No… He should still be able to put due blame on Gene and his department. And once he apprehended Tyler –and perhaps the other missing lunatic who'd supposedly escaped with him, Dominic or Charles or something- _he_ would be the hero.

The thought of a properly flattering headline and the grimace that would be on Gene's face was enough to cheer Derek up. He straightened his bow tie with a supercilious smile and addressed the DS who was driving.

"So, where did the officer say he saw them?"

"On the west side, down towards the docks," the detective sergeant answered quickly, eager to please. Derek liked that in a subordinate. "Apparently Charles Dominic is known around those parts. A little weird, but they'd never been able to pin anything on him 'til recently."

"I don't care about Dominic. It's Sam Tyler that interests me," Derek replied with a dismissive wave. Outside the window, the closely knit buildings of the residential section began to thin out as they past into the old district. Here was where the rich people had long ago bought large plots of land near the river. Derek was a little surprised they were headed this way. It wasn't the stereotypical hangout for the criminal sect.

"Yes, sir," replied the DS. "Well, it sounded like the officer was suspicious when he saw some of Dominic's known associates drive up to a warehouse with two cars then leave in one. He trailed them back to this area. He waited outside the house a while and spotted Dominic drive up a little while later to that same house with that Tyler guy."

"And it took them over an hour to get this information to us." Derek said it disparagingly.

The DS glanced from the road and gave a small shrug. "Well, it took that long for them to figure out it was something the Regional Crime Squad would be interested in."

"There's no excuse for this sort of ineptitude," Derek replied quite calmly. The DS just nodded. A thought occurred to Derek suddenly. "The CID don't know about this, do they?"

That's the last thing he needed. Gene Hunt barging in on his sting. Wonderful!

"Not so far as I know, sir," the DS replied.

Derek smiled haughtily. "Good."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam leaned his back against the bars as he gripped his head with a moan. Arthur, who'd been propped lazily against the back wall snorted and looked to Charles.

"I think you broke him, Dom."

"He needs time to sort himself," Charles replied softly.

"He's had forty-five minutes. That's not enough?" Arthur asked. Not unkindly, just impatiently.

Charles stepped closer to the cell, eyeing Sam's crouched form with understanding. "Once your world is toppled you've got to first find all the pieces and then find the patience and the strength to put them back together again."

Arthur chuckled. "You shoulda been a philosopher instead of a thief, Dom."

"Dominic!" The echoing shout had everybody turning to the stairwell, everybody but Sam. Sam hardly moved from his spot and for all intents and purposes seemed to have forgotten the world around him existed. The owner of the voice, the Northman -Fischer – came barreling down the stairs, his revolver in his hand and his eyes wide. "They've found us."

Arthur was suddenly on edge and moved automatically to stand by Charles. "Who's found us?"

"The police," Fischer replied in a rush. "They've got one car parkin' out front and another two comin' down the way, fast. This isn't their normal patrol, they're comin' in hot. They know we're here."

"How'd they find us?" Arthur questioned, but Fischer could only shrug.

"Dammit," Charles cursed, running his fingers through his hair.

Fischer tightened his grip on his gun. "I hate to say it, but we're gonna have to surrender here."

Charles's eyes went wide with disbelief. "Surrender and they'll just have easier targets. Don't you get it yet? I only escaped before because I happened to get arrested by the right people. Even then they sent me to the asylum where I was wide open! Now they know I've a few loyalists and killing just me won't be good enough anymore! The police will slaughter us."

"So, what are we gonna do?" Fischer exclaimed, panic rising behind his tough guy façade.

"Quiet!" Charles exclaimed. "Three cars. At least two per car, maybe four. Four per car… All right. Fischer, set the door then take the others and scatter out the back. We'll meet later at the rally point," Charles ordered.

"This _was_ the rally point-"

"The _other_ rally point. Keep your heads down," Charles ordered. Fischer grunted acceptance and was already charging up the stairs as Charles spun to Arthur. "Arthur, I need you to retrieve the documents. Then get out through the tunnel down here."

"Fine. But what about you?"

"I've got to get Sam out of here," Charles replied as he fumbled for the cell key.

"I know what yer gonna say, but I'm askin' again anyway," Arthur said in a rush. "You really think this guy's gonna help us?"

"Yes. If his mind makes it through this."

Arthur sighed, but turned and charged up the stairs after Fischer. Charles slid the key into the lock and twisted.

"Now, Sam, I've given you all the time we can really afford here, mate." The cell door swung open, but Sam remained huddled where he was. "Sam?"

Charles approached him cautiously. Considering how willing the DI had been to kill him earlier, he really would've preferred that Sam had fully recovered before they moved him. He reached down and touched Sam's shoulder gently, but Sam showed no sign that he noticed.

"Sam. We've gotta go, mate," Charles urged as he stepped around the huddled form to get a better look at him and he was a little taken aback by what he saw.

Sam's arms were clasped around his knees and he leaned heavily against the rusty metal bars. His eyes were open and stared blankly before him, unblinking. Even as Charles moved to stand in his line of sight, Sam's eyes did not move. He wasn't dead, Charles noted, for his chest moved slightly, but Sam had no recognition of the world around him.

"Hey, Sammy-boy, snap out of it," Charles pushed, giving Sam a shake. "I know I said I'd give you time to sort yerself, but time's run out an' I doubt I can carry you by myself! Are you in there, mate?"

Still no response. Upstairs, the unmistakable sound of gunfire echoed down the cement stairwell. Charles shook him again more urgently this time.

"Sam!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Let me know what you think! And happy holidays! Go do a good deed for someone. ^_^  
PS: If anyone was curious, the Charles in Sam's mind ("Charles-with-a-tie") was quoting Edgar Allen Poe early in the chapter.


	8. Chapter VII: Tunnel Vision

Author's Note: First off: a _Huge_ thanks to everyone who reviewed: Zip, SingingWrenn, Kibble Beast, Ellie, and Xiilnek, you guys are very inspiring. Cheers, guys! Second: as I seem to be doing almost every chapter now; I apologize for the especially long delay. I scratched this chapter and rewrote it about four times before I liked it even a little. Then rewrote and added bits before I finally thought it was ok. I hope you guys enjoy!

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**CHAPTER 7: Tunnel Vision**

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For a long moment, Sam Tyler stared into his own eyes. Mad bloodshot eyes glaring back into his own confused but calmer ones. They were so familiar, but at the same time completely alien. This face in the dark, this fragment of a person, was a part of him, something that had been there all along, but had only recently been split and fostered into a personality in its own right.

No, that wasn't true, was it?

The angry Sam glared daggers at the other Sam, as if it had heard his denial of its being and wanted to argue the point, but still Sam didn't quite buy it. Get it together, someone had told him. That meant he'd fallen apart somehow and now the pieces had to put themselves together again, even if they had been tainted and disfigured as this angry visage had. Bloodshot eyes frowned even deeper and an image of Sam shooting Charles Dominic dead flashed through his mind. The calm Sam recoiled even as the other smiled.

_We can't be like this._

_Why not?_

_That's not who we are! We know this is wrong. We are the police, we catch the bad guys. We don't become the bad guys._

_We both know that 'police' and 'bad guys' aren't necessarily different things._

Sam had an argument but paused as a feeling came to him, the hint of an unhappy memory. After a searching pause, nothing seemed to clarify. _No, they aren't necessarily different things. But they should be._

"Nurse, where's that crash cart!"

It seemed to Sam as if he was blinking, but it was hard to tell. But when he opened his eyes, the other Sam was gone and he felt that his anger had returned to him.

"Nurse?"

Before Sam had a chance to wonder at the return of his fury, he felt himself gasping, yet didn't really feel as if he were lacking oxygen. He was acutely aware however of the quiet, hollow feeling in his chest and he suddenly knew that his heart wasn't beating. It was a peculiar kind of realization. It started out as simply factual. Something that was just a bit of data to be learned and stored away. It was important to someone else for some reason or other, but not to him. And then Sam became suddenly cold and he felt dread yank him down as if he'd stepped off the edge of some high precipice and the meaning became clear.

_My heart's not beating. I'm dying. I'm dead! _

"Nurse!"

_I can't die. I'm not ready! I've got to get home! _Sam started panicking.

"Here, doctor!"

"Charge it! We're losing him!"

_No! Save me, dammit! I'm not ready to go! I've been fighting for my life for months! What have you done to me now?_

"Clear!"

Sam felt only the slightest sensation of being pricked or shocked. Like when you walk across a shaggy carpet and touch your tv screen.

_I'm here! _Sam shouted without voice.

"I can't believe he reacted like this," came the voice of the nurse.

"Neither can I," came the voice of the doctor. Sam, wishing with everything he had that he could feel his heart beating in fear, tried shouting again and from the outside he heard for the first time the high pitched whine of the defibrillator as it charged for another go. "Clear!"

Sam opened his eyes.

He was in a dark place, but not the same dark place he'd just been in moments ago. It was ill lit, but a beam of light was emanating from a place at his side. He was moving forward but he couldn't really account for it since he was positive he wasn't walking. The place he moved through reminded Sam of a sewer, dank, made of stone and brick with walls that sloped upward to a low ceiling. He blinked slowly, but the view was pretty much the same when he opened them again. His heart was racing and though he couldn't remember why exactly, he was pleased that it was.

Slowly he became aware of the fact that someone was speaking.

"So I told them that the aliens made me do it." That was Charles's voice, Sam realized. Hatred boiled in him for only a moment before dwindling into a tired kind of curiosity. With effort he looked to his side and realized that one of his arms was draped over Charles's shoulder and that Charles was dragging him down the tunnel. A torch tied to his belt was the only light to lead their way. Charles gave a tired chuckle between heavy breaths. "And you know what? They believed me! Well… they believed that I believed it. …Those orderlies, mate. I mean really. Aliens? They're… they're so quick to judge, heh. So quick. …And just a little slow. Quick and slow. …Sam, I wish you weren't so damn heavy. We'd be movin' a mite faster. Or at least faster than a mite…"

Sam frowned, wondering how he'd gotten out of the cell. Or the nowhere space. He cleared his throat, startling Charles who was surprised to find his passenger suddenly awake. Sam squinted at him. "Which one are you again?" he asked groggily.

Charles stopped walking to look at his passenger, then gave a winded laugh. "Only one o' me, Sam. You yourself yet?"

So this wasn't the _imaginary_ imaginary one, Sam thought wryly. This was the _real_ imaginary one. If it turned out he was really in a coma, then he had a really strange imagination.

"Can you walk?" Charles questioned. "It'd be nice if we got out of here. Don't think the coppers'll be finding my tunnel entrance, but you can't be too careful, right?"

With a deep breath, Sam straightened, trying to find an energy he didn't have quite yet. He scrunched his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness past over him. His feet felt a little numb after having been dragged a decent way as did his right arm which had been draped over Charles's shoulder. His hands shook a little and his headache was still present, but none of that seemed to be impeding his ability to walk. He took a tentative step forward, then felt the energy drain from him and he leaned heavily against the wall. It felt cold and slimy, but he didn't have the strength quite yet to recoil.

Charles shook his head and pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder again. "Well, at least you can sorta walk. Better than nothin', eh? "

When the dizziness was gone, he opened his eyes and with Charles's presence to steady him, began heading slowly down the tunnel. After a moment he chuckled in delayed amusement at something Charles had said earlier.

"What?" Charles asked.

"It's just… You have a tunnel."

"Yeah. So?" Charles asked.

"A secret underground tunnel? Who does that?" Sam asked incredulously. Really this wasn't the aspect of the situation he should be concentrating on, but at the moment, it was the one thing he _could _concentrate on.

Charles looked confused. "All forward thinking people have tunnels. Notingham Castle, the Vatican, Grand Central Station in the States-"

"The Batcave," Sam put in. That made Charles grin and he tugged Sam's arm into a less strenuous position around his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, I forgot my cape," he chuckled. "How are you feelin' anyway, mate? 'Cause you look awful."

"Thanks," Sam replied sarcastically. The truth was that he felt like he was going through withdrawal. His hand shook on and off, he was sure he had a fever, and he kept going back and forth from dizzy to angry and full of pain to confused about everything and back again. Then again, if he was remembering what had been said in Charles's cell correctly, he had been drugged by the doctors. So maybe he was going through withdrawal. Drug withdrawal and … personality rewriting withdrawal…

Just thinking about what the Charleses had told him had him noticing the before almost unnoticeable itch in his head... Charles was looking at him and Sam realized he'd never answered the question.

_Get it together_, the Charles in his mind had said. Sam wondered if he had done that. And if he hadn't, which personality was he?

"I'm fine," he lied. Then, eager to change the subject, Sam continued. "Why are we in the tunnel? I… You think the police are going to kill you?"

Charles didn't look at him, but Sam noticed a change in the way he walked, stiffer and just a little slower. "I don't think it. I know."

"How?" the DI asked skeptically.

"Sam…why do you think I need you?" Charles questioned, struggling to keep up the pace under Sam's near dead weight.

Trying to ignore the tremor in his free hand, Sam frowned. He'd nearly forgotten that this man had his own mysterious plans for him. Several reasons for needing a policeman came to mind, but the one he'd already accused Charles of earlier made the most sense. "You want a policeman on the inside. Someone who can help you run… whatever illegal goods you've been smuggling or whatever."

Charles gave a little snort. "DI Tyler, if I ever needed a copper for that, I wouldn't need to blackmail him or break him out of an asylum. Not the way things are now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam questioned irritably. Some part of him knew where this was headed, but his conscious mind didn't want to recognize it. Even so he was suddenly sweating and his left hand began to shake again.

"You accused me earlier of having domestic troubles. Yes. My little group is havin' some issues, but not from any o' my people. It's from our new… benefactor. When he first came on board, I was happy to have him. He paid well and he seemed to agree with my vision of things. After a few jobs though, I realized this man was a little more than I bargained for. He had us dealin' in weapons, see? I'd dealt with them before. I was the one who raised the stakes to weapons in the first place, but not in such mass and not such… deadly stuff, if you follow me."

Sam thought he did, but shook his head so Charles would elaborate anyway.

"It was high grade stuff, mate," Charles replied, his voice low as if he thought some third party might overhear. "Explosives powerful enough to level a building. Guns that could punch through steel plated walls. And the quantities in which he wanted us acquirin'? All seemed a bit too shady. When I asked about it, he actually told me flat out that we were supplying arms for an insurrection."

Sam stopped walking. "An insurrection? In Manchester?"

Charles didn't seem happy that they'd stopped moving, but answered anyway. "No. Think a little more north, a little more offshore, and a little more Irish."

Sam blinked. "Ireland? An insurrection in Ireland in 1973?"

"Well, I dunno if they're thinking of going at it straight away or savin' for the future, but yeah," Charles answered with a grunt and began walking them forward once again. "That's where we were sending the stuff. Makes sense, I guess. But I never had any contact with those who the weapons were going to."

Sam was confused. "Is it the IRA? Terrorist organizations? Because I don't… I don't remember anything big this year…"

"What are you, psychic or somethin', Sammy? You can tell the future?" Charles huffed. "This tunnel is much longer than I remember."

Sam was leaning much more heavily on his companion than he had been moments before and Charles cast him a look. Sam ignored him. The more Charles told him about his business dealings, the more anxious he felt. In a way, it was if Charles were telling him something he already knew. Something he was ashamed of.

"What has this got to do with the police?" Sam demanded.

The blond man sighed, the sound almost pitying. "You haven't figured it out? You've a traitor in your midst, Sam Tyler. Someone in the police is a sympathizer. Shippin' guns and explosives and who the hell knows what else to a bunch of murderers."

Sam scoffed. "As opposed to those friendly people you usually sell gun to?"

"I aint no saint, Sam, but I've got lines I don't cross and this doesn't sit well with me. These weapons get out and we could be looking at another Bloody Friday if we're lucky or a major uprising and lots of civilian casualties if we're not-"

"Who is it? Who is this sympathizer?" Sam questioned.

Charles sighed. "I don't know his real name. He paid us up front and in cash. When I decided to start getting dirt on him, I put a tail on him, a couple times, but he is one paranoid man. He was able to lose my guys each time and I never found out where he lived."

Sam stared at Charles silently. "If you don't have a name, then what proof have you actually got? How do you know he's a policeman?" Sam questioned.

"That's what Arthur went back for. I've got pictures and voice recordings of our meetings... secret of course. And he admitted to being a police officer when I first brought him in. He thought he could use the fear of bringing an entire police force down on us as a threat if things went south to scare us from doin' anything against him. If it ever came to that, he said, it'd be my word against his," Charles explained. "I knew then he wasn't the lowest on the food chain then either. He carried some weight with you coppers.

"I tried to get him to back out anyway, but he refused to leave of his own accord. Apparently we did too well a job for him and he didn't want to find a new team. So instead, two of my guys died when 'robbers' broke into their places and shot them in the back of the head. Execution style. They were a warning that threats against his person are no good. I knew then the only way out was to get the evidence against him to the police, an honest officer who might actually be willing to listen to evidence against a superior. …So… I called in a favor. An old acquaintance of mine, PC Richard Eames. I got him to agree to a meeting, secret or so I thought. But he was murdered before I made it to the spot, his body was left as another warning for me."

Sam's eyes widened. "And Binder?"

Charles nodded. "I didn't heed the warning. It only fueled me more. Binder and I had a history. He'd arrested me ages back for a blag gone bad. I was young and he took pity on me. Wrote me up for less then I deserved. So I went to him for help." Charles's gaze went ground-ward. "I don't know how, but the bastard figured out I was in contact with him. Had Binder killed too. Then he went to work settin' me up for a fall. Tried to get me into prison on an unrelated crime, but I managed to plead insanity. I ended up in the asylum where I was safe from any 'accident' that might befall me in his police custody.

"I was still in there when the last one bit the bullet. Sanderson. He was a brother-in-arms with Eames. The way I hear it, Sanderson figured there was more to Eames's death than was being said. He must've gotten too close…"

Sam held his throbbing head with his free hand. It felt warm and clammy, but he tried to ignore the discomfort and concentrate of what Charles was telling him. Someone in the police had committed a multiple homicide to keep his arms smuggling operation a secret? Murdered three good men to silence them? "So I'm number four?"

"Hopefully not," Charles replied. "And technically you'd be number three that I went to for help. I never spoke with Sanderson."

Though Charles's tone was light, Sam could hear the guilt in his voice.

"Thing is, I think you must've been getting close too, Sam. That's why you ended up framed. But there were already too many bodies. If he'd added another dead cop to the list, there'd inevitably be more evidence to link the previous victims. I think you were framed so that he would have a fall guy and people would stop looking for anyone else," Charles replied.

Up ahead, sunlight poured in through a grate of some kind. Only another couple minutes of sluggish walking and they would be free of this dank passageway. But Sam wasn't satisfied with Charles's theory.

"You're forgetting something," said Sam. "I confessed to those murders. Why would I do that?"

"Sam, I don't know. Maybe you didn't really confess at all. Maybe that's part of the brainwashing they did to you."

Sam shook his head. The fog was clearing again, eaten away by the fever perhaps. "No, that's something I'm sure of. I confessed to the murders."

In a sudden flash of memory he saw himself by the body of Sanderson. The last time he'd viewed this memory he'd seen himself admit to murder with pride before gleefully shooting Gene Hunt. This time, however, he saw himself sigh and look up from the body to the DCI who stood fuming. _"…I did it…I killed them."_ Sam remembered the look of surprise and betrayal on Gene's face as he turned, letting a lit cigarette fall from his fingertips.

These images, like the last version, felt very real, very much like a memory. This one however didn't make his insides turn. And he hadn't felt that way out of disgust from his actions, he realized. He'd felt that way because he knew the memory was a lie.

"What the hell is happening to me?" he muttered, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye.

"I know it's hard thinkin' through the crap they did to you, but try to remember; how far did you get into the investigation? Did you actually figure out who the traitor was? "

"I don't…" Sam faded off as he remembered something from the asylum, the strange white haired visitor who seemed a little too nervous to be the friend he claimed to be. The man had supposedly been in to visit him and yet he'd barely said a word. His real purpose had been to deliver the letter. A letter from Mr. Callahan.

And the more he thought about it, the more Sam realized he knew the name. There _was_ a Callahan on the force. He remembered a particular line from the letter, something about getting better soon and 'doing what the nurses tell you'. It hadn't just been pleasantries and good wishes, it had been a threat. This Callahan fellow must have people inside the asylum watching him. Probably watching Charles too.

"That's how he knew where to break in," Sam said aloud. Charles frowned at him. "It wasn't a coincidence those assassins broke into that wing of the asylum when only you were there. He had someone on the inside relay that information. He wanted you silenced, Charles. I was framed, threatened by Callahan and forced to take the blame for the murders, but I must've made a spectacle of myself if Gene wanted to have doctors certify me as sane before putting me in jail."

"Callahan," Charles repeated the name with distaste. "A name for a face."

"I need to talk to Gene Hunt," Sam said suddenly.

"Oh, not this again. Look, Sammy, Hunt's the one that brought you in in the first place. He's not gonna believe you-"

"You want to get your information to a good copper, right? Well, Hunt may be an arrogant, violent xenophobe who jumps the gun often as not, but he is a good copper. He wouldn't stand for somethin' like this in the force," Sam argued.

Charles let out a short, loud laugh which echoed sharply in the tight stone space. "Xenophobic? And you want him to come down on a copper who's sellin' guns that'll kill foreigners?"

"He's a good man," Sam replied firmly. When he wants to be, he added silently. Even with the omission though, Charles did not seem convinced. "Look, you brought this evidence to me 'cause you think I'm your best bet at takin' this guy down. Well I'm telling you, this is the best thing to do here."

"You're also out of your bloomin' mind, if you don't mind me sayin'," Charles countered, but he turned away with a sigh. Sam pushed.

"I can convince Gene of the truth o' these murders. I'm sure of it," he said earnestly, his headache subsiding with the promise of action.

Charles sighed again, then looked dubiously back at Sam. "I'm stickin' my neck out if we do this."

"So am I," Sam replied.

"Yeah… Fine. Alright. You're my ticket, I guess," Charles replied, shifting his hold on Sam yet again. "What's our move then? We bargin' headlong into the police station? Maybe we shadow this Gene bloke and take him aside in an alleyway?"

"No. We need to get to a phone."

"We're gonna phone him?"

"Not Gene. We're goin' to call Annie."

Charles lifted an eyebrow questioningly. "Who?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was late afternoon when Phyllis told Annie that she had a call from her cousin. The WPC had taken the call in an empty side office. There were only a few reasons her extended family would phone her at work and none of them were good. So with thoughts of dead or dying relatives in mind, it took her several seconds to understand what the man on the other end was saying.

"Oh my God. Where are you? Are you all right?" she whispered hurriedly.

"I've been better," came the voice of Sam Tyler. Even through the phone he sounded tired and stressed. It was no wonder really, everything considered. "Annie, listen. I need you to forget everything you've heard about me, it's not true. I didn't kill anyone."

"Sam, I-"

"No, listen. I don't have a lot of time. I just need you to go with me on this. I know who killed those men. Someone on the force has betrayed us all."

"But-"

"I need you to get DCI Hunt to 102 Ruth Av. There's a park there. We'll meet him there at 7:30 tonight. Do what you have to do, but have him come alone. I have proof that will take this bastard down. Can you do that for me? Please?"

Sam sounded so tired, so desperate, it tore at Annie's heart. If she were to be honest with herself, between everything Gene had told her and now hearing this anxiety in Sam's voice, she was a little frightened.

"Annie?"

Annie had been in the police force for long enough to know Sam was one in a million as both an officer and as a human being -when he was making any kind of sane sense anyway. She cared about Sam and so she answered with the intention of calming some of his unease.

"It's all right, Sam. I know everything. DCI Hunt'll be there. He had me scared when he told me about 2006, but it all makes sense now. He'll meet you there. It'll all be over soon."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued in: Mr. Callahan and 2006.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Thoughts and critiques are welcome!

PS: For those who were wondering, I believe there will only be one or two more chapters. And I promise the next/last chapter will be up sooner than this one was.


	9. Chapter VIII: Mr Callahan and 2006

Author's Note: *Gasp!* She's alive? The next chapter has finally arrived! Thanks to Zip and Xiilnek for their reviews. Hope anyone still following enjoys! I've got a lovely long chapter for you guys.

Recap: Sam has escaped the psych ward with one Charles Dominic, leader of a group of smugglers and thieves. Charles claims to have information on the man who last hired him, a bent cop who wanted Charles to smuggle military grade weapons to terrorists, the same man who is responsible for the deaths of three policemen. Sam, struggling to maintain a sanity that had been rocked by doctors in the psych ward, has come to the realization that this traitor in the force is likely a man named Callahan, someone who contacted him through a letter while he was in the psych ward and manipulated him into confessing to the murders to Gene Hunt. After a police raid on Charles's hideout, Arthur was sent back to retrieve Charles's evidence against Callahan while Sam was dragged to safety. Sam then called Annie to ask for a meeting with Gene in an attempt to get the evidence into the hands of a good copper and was left with an supposedly comforting but ominous message: That it would all be over soon.

* * *

**CHAPTER 8: Mr. Callahan and 2006**

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* * *

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DCI Hunt had left only a few minutes earlier when DCI Litton stormed into the CID offices followed by a pair of his underlings. Annie, who had been left behind despite her offer to accompany Gene, was now even more displeased. She, one other WPC, Chris Skelton and Ray Carling were the only ones in the office when they arrived and Annie wasn't very happy that she was the first one the snooty man noticed. Honestly, Litton wasn't half as bad as Gene Hunt put on, she thought. But he wasn't particularly likeable either. Litton sauntered up to the first line of desks a smirk pulling at his lips.

"So, is Gene in today, girlie?" he questioned.

Annie did a fair job of keeping her expression neutral despite the DCI's disparaging tone. "You just missed him, sir. He's gone out for a bit."

Litton's smirk slid down just a bit. "Is that so… Any idea where he went? When he might be back?"

A few desks back, Ray jabbed out a cigarette in an ash tray as he responded for her. "That's none of yer business, Litton."

Litton cast a glare at Ray. "You should watch your tone when you speak to a superior officer."

"If I see one, I'll do just that," Ray replied with a chuckle. Chris joined in nervously.

"I could have you written up for insubordination, DS Carling. A word I'm sure you've come across many times in your day," Litton threatened. Behind him, his two associates stepped forward threateningly. It would have reminded Annie of a gang of bullies preparing to pick a fight if it hadn't been for their colorful ties and patterned jackets. "And as it happens, it is my business. DSI Tannon has informed me that Gene Hunt may know more about my homicide case and Sam Tyler than he's been letting on. And so I've been given permission to search Gene Hunt's office for information."

Ray and Chris looked personally offended at this breach of their guv's personal space. Annie was more afraid that Gene might have actually left something out that they shouldn't see. Hoping to curb their curiosity, she spoke.

"The guv really didn't tell us where he was going, sir, or we'd tell you," she lied with her best submissive tone. She was hoping if Litton was allowed to think he was in control of the situation, he would leave without investigating further, but it was a long shot. "If you want, we could call you when he comes back."

Chris and Ray were thankfully silent and didn't egg Litton on, but it didn't matter. Litton strode right past Annie. "You will call us when he gets back anyway. But we still need to search his office for… evidence."

Litton and his group reached the office and Ray turned away to scowl his disapproval of the situation at Chris and the two women. The door opened without protest –Gene never locked his office- and Litton waved his men in. Litton hung in the doorway a moment to look back at them.

"When he does come back, you can tell Gene-o that the Regional Crime Squad is making real headway. We discovered the whereabouts of Charles Dominic who is apparently harboring Sam Tyler and we have taken one of Dominic's members into custody. DSI Tannon is interrogating him in an… undisclosed location and he's telling us everything even as we speak."

Ray and Chris looked confused. "What everything?" Ray asked. "What would some bloke what works for a nut house escaper have to say about anything?"

Litton looked about to ignore Ray, then decided to rub his superior understanding of the situation in Ray's face. He turned around with a smile. "How little you know about this whole thing, DS Carling. How little any of you really know. This may have started out a simple homicide, but we at the RCS have uncovered just how much deeper all this runs. Sam Tyler may have done the dirty work when Eames and the other PCs got too close, but there was another who had Tyler under his thumb. And that was the mastermind who was plannin' something far more dangerous. Murder on a massive scale."

Ray's brow wrinkled in confusion as he tried to grasp what Litton was talking about. "Who's murderin' who now?"

Litton sighed in exaggerated exasperation. "I've really told you too much already."

"But why do you have to search the guv's office then?" Chris asked.

"Oh, DC Skelton. Gene Hunt is in this up to his eyeballs," Litton replied. Then, viciously, he added, "And we're gonna make sure he drowns in it."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Readings are returning to normal, doctor._

_Keep an eye on him. We have to make sure they stay that way. We don't want him to relapse._

_But we've taken him off of the drug._

_We don't know what the damage might be. That drug is brand new and still experimental. Sam Tyler was the perfect patient for a trial dosage… _

Sam thought he could hear the sound of paper rustling.

_It was supposed to encourage brain activity, encourage his mind to wake up as it were. _The doctor sighed._ Well it increased something all right. Testosterone production, the frontal lobe's activity… If he weren't in a coma, this would have created one very angry soul._

_What about the decrease in the temporal lobe?_

Another sigh._ We'll see, nurse. It could be that once his system is purged of the drug, he'll be back to the way he was, or better even. …Could be that the drug has damaged his ability to speak or his memory, both located in the temporal region._

'You'd better _hope_ I don't remember this little incident, Dr. Whoever-you-are, because I did not sign off on this!' Sam thought angrily. 'Your little drug nearly drove me mad!'

Suddenly a much closer voice sounded from right beside him. "Damn, damn, dammit!"

Sam shook himself out of his internal thoughts of cursing the incompetent doctors who were 'caring' for him and looked over to his angry companion. He couldn't blame Charles for being upset, but he couldn't think of anything comforting to say that hadn't already been said either.

After the rather disturbing phone call to Annie who'd quite ominously told him that "it would all be over soon", Charles had taken Sam to his secondary meeting place. There they'd leaned that Arthur had never made it back from the house. The police had swarmed in, the reinforced door barely slowing them at all. Arthur had been trapped upstairs and arrested before he could escape. Fischer and the others had gotten away, but Charles had been none too pleased that his right hand man had been kidnapped by his enemies.

Sam had assured the worrying Charles that Arthur wouldn't have been harmed, that no matter who had been in charge of the raid, they wouldn't have killed Arthur with other policemen around. They would have to bring him to the station to be officially processed. He just hoped that was true. Bent cops were hard to judge and without knowing if the raid cops were bent or not…

Despite his half hearted attempt at comfort, Sam recognized that he was a little more annoyed that Arthur's capture meant Charles's evidence was either still at Charles's house or now in the hands of the police. Going back to the house to check hadn't been an option, however. Fischer had reported that at least one unmarked police car had been left behind to watch the place. That meant all he had to present to Gene Hunt now was the word of a lunatic. It was not going to go over well, Sam just knew it.

Sam led the way into the park on 102 Ruth Ave. It was a nice but small little area. Walkways bordered on either side by tall oaks led through the park to a small bandstand at its center. A couple football fields stood empty to the west and the rest of the park consisted of small clusters of deciduous trees. Yellow lights along the stone sidewalks that crisscrossed from the bandstand to the fields and ending in dirt trails in the trees ensured that even at night, people might enjoy what the park had to offer. On this particularly chilly night, however, the park was nearly empty.

"Hey," Charles started as Sam slowed to take in their surroundings. "Why meet at a park? It's not exactly private."

"I dunno… It just seemed like the right place," Sam replied. It was true. He didn't think he'd actually ever been here, but without much contemplation at all, he had told Annie to have Gene meet him there. Odd. "And it's not like there's anyone around anyway."

Charles shrugged, pulling his suit jacket closer around him unhappily. "Parks are for football and dog walking, not secret hush-hush under-the-table spy stuff."

Spy stuff? "You watch too much tv," Sam replied scoldingly.

"And maybe you don't watch enough, eh?" There was a note of rising panic in Charles's tone. "If you did, you'd realize just how careful one should be in these situations. Who's to say this Hunt bloke'll really come alone, eh? Maybe he's got a flotilla of armed guys with rifles and bazookas scattered all throughout this park."

"Flotilla?" Wasn't that some kind of military term? "This isn't the navy. The guv'll come alone," Sam replied. "And even if he doesn't, he'll listen to me first. I'm sure he will. We'll take down this bent copper. You're being paranoid."

"I've a right to a little paranoia!" Charles exclaimed, eyes darting around them. "People are hunting me down, hunting my people down, all 'cause I told some higher up in the police that I wasn't one for sanctioning terror acts! This is what the good guys get, Sam. They get dead!"

Sam whirled around and jabbed an angry finger into Charles's chest. "Let me point out, Charles, that if you were a good guy you wouldn't have been dealing in the illegal transportation of products so you wouldn't have had to worry about being hunted in the first place!" the DI shouted, quietly, back. "The important thing is that you're choosing to do good now."

Charles was silent, staring at Sam a moment before looking away guiltily. Sam glared a moment longer before turning away with a huff. It was then that he noted a stone path leading off into a dark copse of trees and it struck him then that there was where he would meet Gene. He glanced to his wrist for the time before remembering that his watch was still in lockup at the asylum. Behind him, Charles had the same idea and looked to his own wrist.

"Comin' up on 7:30," he replied, his voice a little more subdued than it had been. "I really hope you know what you're doing."

Sam led the way to the copse of trees. "This is the reason you came to me in the first place. To get the evidence, such as it is, to those who can be trusted."

"Yeah… And you do seem…" Charles faded off.

"Seem what?" Sam asked with a glance to his side.

"…Better." Charles answered cautiously.

"Than who?" Sam asked, confused. "Than the other cops?"

Charles smirked. "That's yet to be seen. Better than you were earlier," he explained. "Less crazy."

Sam had to give a wry smile at that and wondered what the man would think if he explained what he'd heard the 2006 doctors say they'd done to him.

"Well, here's the spot," Sam replied, coming to a stop just before the copse of pine and oak trees.

"And that's my cue to hide," Charles replied as he began examining trees with interest.

"Hide? Why?"

"Ha! We don't have my other evidence ergo I am the evidence now. That's why _I'm_ here. Got to give my testimony to the guv'ner. But I aint doin' it 'til I see he's a man of his word." And with that, Charles leapt for a low oak branch just behind where Sam stood and began to scramble skyward with all the tree climbing grace of a dog.

"So you're going to hide in a tree?" Sam questioned in disbelief, nervously waiting for Charles to fall back down to the ground. "It doesn't even have any leaves!"

"_Many_ leaves. Still got some. And how often to people really look up anyway," Charles replied as he climbed still higher, a little more dexterous now. Despite the well lit walkways, not much light hit where Sam stood now just off the stone path and as soon as Charles was a couple meters above him, Sam could barely see him in the darkness. "Now shush and stop looking at me! Someone's coming. Don't give me away or I'll make sure when they shoot me down I'm fallin' on you!"

Sam shook his head with an incredulous scoff and turned to note a large figure was indeed headed his way. The figure didn't bother with the walkways, just made a bee-line straight for Sam, somehow knowing that this spot was the place to meet.

Just as Sam had.

Sam took a steadying breath, trying to sort out what he would say. He'd have to tell Gene he was innocent first, of course. He'd have to tell him that Callahan had coerced him into pleading guilty. He'd have to…

Sam frowned as the figure came closer. It didn't seem big anymore, certainly not big enough to be Gene Hunt. It was thin and about his height. Its dark coat was pulled tightly around it and its hood drawn up over its shadowed face. It came to a halt a few paces away and Sam felt a sense of dread as it reached up for its hood.

"You?" Sam replied in utter confusion. Sam Tyler could only stare as a doppelganger stood before him, smirking.

"Hello, Sam," it said.

"How…?"

"We both know how. I'm what the Doc would label 'the Damage'."

Sam seethed. "I am not damaged," he hissed in a low voice, afraid that someone might hear him talking to himself. "Get out of here."

"Not damaged? Get out of here? Listen to yourself, mate," the Damage laughed.

Sam's eyes glinted and he stepped forward and grabbed the chuckling hallucination by the front of his jacket. "I am not insane. I wasn't before the drug and I refuse to be now."

"You can't refuse insanity. Damage to your memory center, damage to your emotional control… You are an amnesiatic time bomb ready to explode on anyone that pisses you off," the Damage told him. Sam let him go and took a horrified step away, but it didn't stop there. "The more you repress me, the more erratic I'll be. I'm not threatening you, Sam, it's just… facts are facts. Come on, mate. We could shake this city to the core if you just accept this. You have to admit, we know this city pretty damn well, time difference an' all. We could have Callahan runnin' in circles looking for us! We could change history!"

Sam shook his head. "That doesn't appeal to me in the slightest," he replied coldly.

"We know that's not true."

"_We_," Sam motioned to himself and the doppelganger. "Don't know anything. _I_ know I don't want to kill anyone. I don't want…"

"Still zoning out then, Dorothy?"

Sam jumped at the sight of Gene Hunt standing right where his doppelganger had been a moment before. Sam blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the DCI stood there still. Gene's hands were tucked deep in the pockets of his tan trench coat and if his grim tone hadn't been enough to convey Gene's displeasure at his predicament, then his scowl certainly made up for it.

"Guess the quacks didn' fix you up none during yer… brief stay," Gene replied.

Sam swallowed hard and took another brief moment to let his eyes dart searchingly over the area for his vanished doppelganger. But the dark and damaged Sam was nowhere to be seen.

"I came alone, Tyler, if that's yer worry," Gene assured, pulling out a small flask from his pocket. "Really, you shoulda come ta me sooner. Saved me the trouble of runnin' 'round looking for you."

Sam's brows creased. "Well I didn't know if I could, did I."

Gene finished taking a swig from the flask and waved an annoyed hand in Sam's direction. "'Course you could. That was the whole point, wasn't it?"

Sam didn't get where this conversation was going and the confusion had a frustratingly dizzying effect. The ground shifted beneath him and he stumbled, but caught himself.

"What are you, drunk?" Gene scolded, looking his former DI over with curious annoyance.

"I'm fine," Sam replied as the world steadied itself back out.

"Doubt it. Gotta say though, I didn't think things would end up the way they are, you know?" Gene took another swig then screwed the lid back on.

Still confused, Sam decided to steer the conversation back to what he did understand. "Guv, I called you here because I've found out something about the homicide case. Something important."

"Better damn well be after the wait I've had," Gene replied, not surprised in the least that Sam was changing topics to the case that had put him away. A little voice in the back of Sam's mind warned him something was amiss.

"So, what do you have?" Gene asked.

Time to just come right out and say it. "I believe there's a traitor in the police."

"Yeah?" Gene replied, again not surprised.

Beside Sam, the Damage reappeared as a shadow. "Careful, Sam," it whispered. Gene seemed unaware of its presence so Sam tried not to look.

Sam swallowed hard. "…Yeah," he confirmed.

Gene pursed his lips, sniffed, and took a moment to slip his flask back into his inside pocket. As he pulled his coat aside however, Sam caught a glimpse of a hand gun tucked threateningly in his belt. Fading into existence at Gene's side like a whisp of smoke, the Damage watched Sam with a hint of malicious amusement.

"Something's wrong here," it told him. "I don't think he's here just to talk, mate."

Sam tensed, trying to ignore the hallucination as Gene spoke.

"Well? I assume you got a name at least," Gene replied, hands on his hips. Not far from the gun, Sam noted.

"Yeah..." Sam said slowly. He tried to shake off the bad feeling. "It's some guy by the name of H. Callahan."

Gene gave an incredulous snort. "Well that's a right nasty thing to say to a bloke. I'm H. Callahan."

Sam stood stock still nonplussed and quite speechless. "You… You did this?"

Gene frowned. "What're you lookin' so surprised for? You knew all about this!"

The accusation took Sam aback. At Gene's side the Damage smiled and Sam felt the fury of betrayal rise within him.

"You bastard!" he shouted and before he knew what he was doing, Sam was throwing a vicious punch in Gene's direction.

Gene, eyes wide in surprise at the unexpected attack took the haymaker full in the face. He stumbled back a half step. Sam wasn't done however. He came back up with a jab again to the face and swung another for the throat, but Gene got in a punch of his own. The heavy strike sent Sam staggering to the side, his mind still swimming. Gene was Callahan? Gene was the one behind this mess? Why?

"You bloody lunatic!" Gene shouted. "What the hell are you-"

Gene's exclamation was cut off in a grunt as Sam Tyler charged him low around the midsection. Sam couldn't have hoped to take the bigger man down like that. He'd hit him too high and Gene had had too much time to recover. Now, with his stance set, the most Sam's full on tackle did was make him stagger back a couple steps. Gene reached down to get Sam's head in a lock, but stopped dead when he felt Sam slip the gun out of his belt and push the barrel into his gut. Sam felt no pleasure in his victory as Gene released him. The DI straightened gun still pressed to his adversary and Gene glared at Sam.

Sam glared back and was suddenly aware that this was nearly identical to his vision of shooting Gene over Sanderson's body. It could all come true. He only needed to do was pull the trigger and it would be over. Just increase the pressure, just a little more-

"You are Callahan?" Sam questioned again, the act of hearing his own voice aloud helping to conquer the murderous thoughts. Somewhere behind Gene, Sam knew the image of the Damage was scowling furiously. Sam could almost smile, but staring down Gene Hunt or Mr. Callahan kept him from feeling too good about the victory. Gene was not pleased either.

"Of course I'm Callahan, you bleedin' idiot!" Gene exclaimed.

"You sent me that letter in the psych ward. And the visitor…"

"What, is this some sorta trip down memory lane? Yeah, I sent 'em! How else did you think we were supposed to communicate?" Gene questioned. "Couldn't exactly waltz on down there meself, could I? Woulda ruined the whole cover!"

Sam was stunned. "Cover?" His gun wavered and Gene took this as a sign to continue.

"O' 'course, things got pretty cocked up anyway. Didn't realize they had the balls to bust into a government institution to try to kill both o' you. Military grade explosives, Ray tells me."

"Both of us. You mean me and…"

"…And Charles Dominic. Bloody hell, they really messed you up in there, didn't they. Or is this some sorta natural progression of the craziness you had before?" Gene replied gruffly.

"No… I, uh…" Sam stepped away from the other man. He pressed the grip of the gun to his head and sucked in a deep breath as another memory resurfaced. He had been kneeling beside the body of a dead PC. His hands had been covered in blood. Now he looked up at the DCI with wide haunted eyes. "Gene, I didn't kill those men."

Gene stood quite thunderstruck. "O' 'course not. But when the bodies started piling up, you suggested a little under cover assignment."

Sam felt a sharp pain in his head as the memory continued. He blinked and was again beside the body of Sanderson. Sam watched himself sigh and look up from the corpse to the DCI who stood fuming. _"What if I did it? What if killed them?"_ Sam remembered the look of surprise and betrayal on Gene's face as he turned, letting a cigarette fall from his fingertips. _"I didn't, guv, obviously. But what if we pretend I did. If I took the blame for the murders, it might slow the real killer down. This monster's killing coppers 'cause he thinks his cover is close to getting compromised. Eames, Binder, Sanderson…They were all on to something and the killer didn't want to risk them finding him out."_

Sam pressed the grip of the gun harder into his head, trying to push out the pain. This was the third time he'd seen this memory and each time it had been different. Each time had felt more plausible than the previous and this one… this one rang true.

Gene, the Gene in front of him now, continued. "We went through everything Eames, Binder, and Sanderson had done before their deaths. They thought they'd found evidence that a high ranking official in the Manchester Police Force was involved in some illegal arms transactions. You, bein' the boy genius you are, made the connection between Eames and Binder: they both knew a rubbish thief called Charles Dominic. Dominic had just been put away after being arrested and provin' himself too crazy for jail. You examined Dominic's file, did some timeline whatchamathingits and decided Charles had to know something."

Sam was shaking his head. "I don't remember."

"This whole thing was your flamin' idea and you don't remember?" Gene exclaimed. "You went in there to find Dominic, see what he knew, an' relay that back to my visitor."

"Who was he?"

"Just some minor criminal that owed me a favor," Gene replied with a sniff.

Sam's mind was swimming. "What about that ridiculous letter?"

Gene looked offended. "Whadda you mean 'ridiculous'? Thought it was all quite clever, really. It was all based on that code stuff we'd listed out beforehand. And anyway, you created it, didn't you?"

"Created it?" Sam questioned. But even as he said it, he figured out the code.

_Sam,_

_Hope you're feeling better. Sorry I couldn't come see you in person, but you know how things are at work. I know your mother wants to see you. Maybe on the 12__th__ or 14__th__. Don't worry about all this, we'll make it right. You just worry about getting better and doing what the nurses tell you. Give them the old ten two!_

_ -H. Callahan_

"A meeting place. Ten two, that was the address number. An' my mother's name is Ruth," Sam said slowly.

Gene nodded and lifted his arms to motion to the park around them. "102 Ruth Av."

"What was the 12th or 14th-" Sam stopped himself. "It was the time to meet. Between 1200 and 1400. One o'clock, military time. Clever."

"An' useful had everything gone according to plan. You were supposed to meet me here the day after I got you released on a tecni… technical engine…something."

"Technicality," Sam corrected. He shook his head. Somehow, despite the fact his therapy sessions had caused some kind of localized amnesia, Sam's mind had still decoded Gene's message and led him to this park.

"Had to have Phyllis in on it too. Someone to deal with yer visitor while I dealt with the… political blowback of havin' a cop killer be a cop," Gene continued. "The Detective Chief Super gave us the go, but it was just me, you, an' Phyllis that knew the whole deal. Couldn't take the chance of it leakin'. Chris and Ray are good coppers, but they get chatty as a hooker in confession when they've had enough to drink."

"But… Annie. She said-"

"Yeah, you know how to pick 'em, Sam. She was snoopin' around the whole time, tryin' to prove yer innocence. Had to tell the tart the truth just so she'd stop before she got herself inta trouble!"

Sam actually laughed. For the first time in days he was getting satisfactory answers for the questions that had been running rampant in his brain. He still couldn't remember all of it, but it felt true.

"There is a Callahan on the force, though," Sam said, the gun now lowered at his side. Gene watched it, but seemed a little more relaxed as well now that it wasn't pointed in his direction.

"If there is, I don't know 'im," Gene replied with a shrug. "My name came from _Dirty Harry_."

Sam frowned quizzically. "What?"

"_Dirty Harry_?" Gene repeated a bit louder, as if it were obvious. "Dirty Harry Callahan? Clint Eastwood? It's an American picture 'bout a tough bastard cop who-"

"I get it. I get it," Sam replied holding up a hand to stop him. Was _that_ really where he knew it from? He hadn't seen that film in ages. "One last thing though… What's all this about… 2006?"

Gene lifted an eyebrow. "You and Cartwright. Is 2006 a dirty number or something? Some code for the kinky shit you get up to after hours?"

Sam's mortification and confusion competed for use of his mouth, but finally confusion won. "But Annie said you knew something-"

"20-06 is the case number, you git! Though right now it's better known 'round the office as the Case of the Scum-suckin' Tyler Bastard," Gene hissed.

Sam scowled. "No it isn't."

"Is too, actually."

"Definitely isn't!" Sam shot back. "You people couldn't remember anythin' that long!"

"Like you'd know. Even if you'd been there you probably wouldn't know 'cause you'd be too busy runnin' round naked singin' about yer feelings!" Gene exclaimed.

Sam stared at him quite blankly, lost somewhere along the bumpy road of Gene's thought process.

"Because you're a barmy psycho," Gene elaborated.

Sam opened his mouth in a silent 'uh-huh' of understanding. "Thing is, technically psychopaths have a _lack_ of feelings. So if I were a psychopath, which I am not, I wouldn't be doin' much singing about feelings."

Gene glared at him, his thunder taken from him by a politically correct nutter. "Yer a walking dictionary, you are. And yet you don't know _Dirty Harry._"

Sam had to chuckle at that, breaking the tension and Gene found himself laughing too. The moment vanished quickly when a yelp came from behind Sam. The pair whirled around just in time to see something fall out of a tree to the ground with a thud. Gene began to move forward, likely to throttle the stranger for eavesdropping, but Sam held up a hand and Gene stopped. Possibly because it was the hand with the gun.

"It's all right," Sam replied. "He's with us."

Us. That felt good. He wasn't just a misunderstood escapee from a mental institution anymore. He was part of the solution to the very problem the doctors and psychiatrists claimed he'd been a part of. Near the tree, Charles stood up with a groan, using the tall trunk for support. Gene snorted.

"With us, is he? This ponce in a tree? He yer new girlfriend then?" Gene grunted.

Sam rolled his eyes, but refused to rise to Gene's taunt. "Guv, this is Charles Dominic. Charles, DCI Gene Hunt."

Gene crossed his arms and his expression changed from a scowl to a look of approval. "So, you actually did something right after all then? I'm speechless."

When Charles was finally vertical, he turned to Gene with a mock salute. "Nice to meet you, guv. Though I've got to say I'm opposed to that 'rubbish' comment you made 'bout me earlier."

"Too bad," Gene replied gruffly.

Unabashed, Charles turned to Sam and whispered loudly, "I think we can trust him. This guy's not the guy I was working with."

"I'm right here, you daft nutter. I can hear you," Gene growled. "Who were you working with? Who is the traitor?"

"That's our problem, see? We don't know his name." Charles replied unhappily.

"Well then I'm arresting you for obstruction of justice and breaking out of prison!" Gene replied threateningly as he slipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

"I didn't break outta prison! It was an insane asylum! …And there was already a hole there, I just happened to use it!" Charles exclaimed defensively.

Sam held up his hands, "Wait, guv, hold on. We can't afford that yet. We've got to take down the traitor first. Charles is our witness. He's seen the man."

"Yeah, I've seen him," Charles confirmed, straightening his waistcoat before fumbling with the buttons of his jacket. "But before I say anything, I want assurances."

"Assurances?" Gene questioned. "We aint here to make deals with criminals, Dominic-"

"Maybe that's not what you set out to do, my friend, but that's all that's left open to you now," Charles shot back. Once again his madness seemed to have lifted and Charles appeared a proper businessman ready to argue his point until it was agreed upon.

Gene was displeased with this change in tone and was perfectly ready to get back to basics (basics being fists and cuffs), but Sam spoke up quickly.

"You want this as much as we do, Charles," the DI said. "What are you doing?"

"Too many people have died, Sam Tyler, so that this bastard can get rich and wage war," Charles told them. "I want your word, both of you, that you will do everything in your power to get my man out alive. And _when_ you do, I want immunity for past crimes for him and the others."

"Immunity?" Gene questioned. "Fer a low life thievin' criminal?"

"Arthur's like the kid brother I never had," Charles said, now addressing Sam more than Gene. "I've been lookin' out for him since he was twelve. He's not a bad guy."

Sam shook his head. "Charles, he's a criminal. We'll do our best to get you all through this, but we are officers of the law and when this is all done, you're going to jail."

Charles searched Sam's eyes, then Gene's, the latter of which were being rolled in disgust at Sam's heartfelt assertions. "It's a fair cop," Charles said finally with a shrug.

"Describe this guy," Gene demanded. Then the thought came to him. "He didn't wear a big floppy bow-tie and talk like an arrogant sod, did he?"

Charles shook his head. "Not really. I mean… he was a little full of himself, but I've found that comes with the territory. No bow-ties neither. He's a tall guy, thin. And though he was definitely full of himself, he was also… very professional. Em… White… Kinda brown hair, mustache. Always played with it when he was thinking."

Gene scowled at how general the description was. Sam wasn't too pleased either. Charles crossed his arms.

"We caught a glimpse of his badge once. Or Fischer did. He couldn't make out the name but he saw the rank."

"You saw his rank, but not his name?" Gene asked dubiously.

"Hey, we were lucky we saw anything at all. The man didn't mean to have it out when he did," Charles replied. "Anyway, it said 'Detective Superintendent'."

Sam and Gene's eyes widened a little.

"The traitor's a Superintendent?" Sam questioned.

Gene's eyes were dark. "And I think I know which one."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Detective Superintendent Benjamin Tannon stepped into the 'undisclosed location' where he and DCI Litton were holding the criminal Arthur. He stood in the shadows of the interrogation room, watching the defiant young man he had cuffed to a metal chair. A sergeant was currently glaring down at him and Arthur was frowning right back.

"Where is Sam Tyler?" The sergeant was demanding for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time, the black haired kid shrugged.

"I don't know any Tyler," he replied.

"You little liar," the sergeant snarled, bringing a hand down across Arthur's face. The young man took it well. He didn't cry out or make any noise at all for that matter. Simply asking questions had gotten them nowhere nor had physical violence, Tannon was thinking. Perhaps it was time for a different approach. Tannon cleared his throat and called the sergeant over. The officer obeyed, but left the heavily breathing form of Arthur a bit begrudgingly. Obviously he didn't think his work there was done quite yet.

"Sergeant, I'm going to take a few minutes with him. Maybe an old hand like myself can get something out of him," Tannon replied.

The sergeant nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied, but as Tannon began to move forward, he noted that his subordinate was still there. "Alone," he clarified. "Please wait outside."

"Sir? He's a criminal. I really don't think I should leave you alone with him," the sergeant replied.

"Touching, Sergeant Bohnam, but your concern is unnecessary. Wait outside and don't come in until I give the say so. That's an order."

With the slightest of confused frowns, Bohnam nodded and exited. Only when the big metal door had swung shut behind him did Tannon begin his slow approach. Arthur had been struggling to see through the shadows since Bohnam left and now Tannon could tell he sensed that something was wrong.

"Hey!" Arthur yelled. "What's goin' on? You know, you can't hold me! You haven't charged me with anything! I didn't do anything, so you've gotta let me go!"

Tannon chuckled as his tall frame stepped around a set of shelves and out of the shadows that had hidden him. "I highly doubt you weren't doing anything, Arthur. I know all too well what you and your boss get up to."

As Arthur laid eyes on the man approaching him, his fidgeting and struggling ceased and his face went quite pale. "You," he said in a whisper.

Tannon's usually gentle features darkened. "Me."

Arthur's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Look, mate… I don't know anything. I swear."

"I don't think that's quite true."

Arthur's eyes darted to the metal shelving, looking desperately beyond it for the door. "It is!"

"I went after Charles Dominic because he went after me. Seems only fair, doesn't it?" Tannon asked as he strode a casual circle around the shivering prisoner.

"You… asked something that was beyond us, mate. We're not murderers-"

"You were hired to ship product, not make decisions," Tannon hissed as he leaned in close. "What were you doing running around upstairs when the police came into your little hideout, hm? Everyone else seemed ready for battle, but not you. What were you doing?"

Arthur took a steadying breath. "Nothing."

Tannon threw a fist into Arthur's midsection and the young man grunted in pain.

"Let's try this then. I know Dominic has something on me or he wouldn't have kept going to the police. What does he have?"

Arthur shook his head. "I dunno," he replied.

Tannon whipped out a switch blade and pressed the blade to Arthur's neck. "What does he have?"

Arthur gauged Tannon's intent in his eyes, then took a huge risk and cried out. "Help me!-"

Tannon struck Arthur hard in the jaw silencing him quickly, but not quickly enough. The doors creaked open heavily and Sergeant Bohnam and a PC rushed in looking panicked.

"Sir, we heard-"

"Everything's fine. Return to your posts. Our little friend here is just causing trouble," Tannon assured with a charismatic smile. He looked seriously back to Arthur then who was trying to focus through the daze he'd been stricken into. "He won't be doing that again, will he?"

Even though the world was spinning, Arthur knew as he stared at Tannon that another outburst would be the death of him. Not that he wasn't already a dead man walking, he thought, but for some reason he still had some small remnant of hope that forced him to grunt a defeated 'no' to the bent Superintendent.

Arhur's boss was the kind of leader one wanted to follow. Charles had a sense of loyalty to his employees you didn't often find on the streets. Arthur's people would come for him. He just had to hold out until then. But as the metal door swung shut leaving him alone with his captor once more, Arthur wondered if that were possible.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued...

-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: So, it turned out that this wasn't the final chapter. Likely it'll be the next one, possibly an epilogue after that, but we'll see. Thanks for continuing to follow the story despite my long breaks between chapters. My tests and other stuff are done now, so I've got no more excuses for delays! Hope it didn't ruin the flow too much.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! They are both rewarding and helpful, so let me know what you think! Critiques are lovely, flames are dangerous.


	10. Chapter IX: Withdrawal

Author's Note: Hey, all. I guess I owe you some explanation for my complete disappearance. Let's just say sometimes you get all cozy with normal everyday stuff and then Life decides to pull the chair out from under you. A few months ago a family member of mine went into the hospital so I was spending some time away from my writing and honestly since then my creativity has been somewhat lacking. Things are somewhat better now, but there's a lot more stress with everything now than there had been. I'm sorry I've been away so long and hopefully the final chapter will be up in the next couple weeks. I hope you all enjoy this nice long chapter to tide you over. Thank you to everyone who's still following the story and a special thanks to Zip, ItsAHydeThing, and Th Ghst for your reviews. They make me smile. Cheers, guys! ^_^

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**CHAPTER 9: Withdrawal **

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DCI Litton went through Gene's office without regard for its owner's privacy. While his lackeys riffled through file cabinets, Derek allowed himself the pleasure of going through Gene Hunt's desk. He sat down in the chair with a satisfied sigh and began rifling through the papers on the tabletop. Derek didn't know what to believe exactly. DSI Tannon was apparently under the impression that Gene was the man who was setting up this terrorist thing and that he'd been the one to send Sam Tyler off to kill those police, but Derek wasn't so sure. He and Gene had quite the rivalry, though Derek thought it somewhat one-sided when it came to skill. He didn't think Gene had the brains to mastermind something like this. And even if he did… why let Tyler confess? Why send Tyler to the psych ward? To kill Charles Dominic perhaps? The man behind an illegal shipping business? But then why was Dominic still alive? And why had Tyler and Dominic been spotted together?

Derek rubbed his head. He didn't like complications_. That was the law of Occam's Razor after all! No complications!_ Derek was a firm believer in the specious idea that Occam's Razor meant that 'the simplest idea is the correct one'. That it really meant the 'the correct idea is the one that most simply explains _all_ the evidence' was a tad too complicated for him and his false reasoning had served him pretty well in his life thus far. But now…

Now the evidence was starting to get in the way again. Now Derek had a few questions about his boss's theory and of course the time that he actually had questions was the time where talking back to a superior and possibly proving him wrong wouldn't necessarily look good on his record. With a pout that rivaled that of a displeased six year old, Derek yanked open a drawer in Gene's desk and began moving the contents about. Almost right away he found a file of interest. It was the case file for the Tyler case.

"20-06-1973," he read aloud as he flipped it open. "So the bastard never meant to send it after all. What were you hiding, Gene-o?"

One of his lackeys turned to him questioningly. "You say somethin', guv?"

"No," Derek replied grouchily. Another quick search of the drawer revealed a scrap of paper with obscure names and words that didn't mean much of anything to Derek. Names and numbers like Ruth, ten, two, Callahan, and other nonsense littered the page in a disorganized fashion. It was as if Gene had known Derek would come and was purposely trying to hinder his investigation! But Hunt wasn't that smart, was he? Derek was just repressing an urge to rip the paper to pieces when one of Gene Hunts little goons entered the office. Chris Skelton, Derek thought, looked a bit nervous.

"Um, there's someone to see you in the, um… in the Lost and Found," Chris said.

"You've found something?" Derek questioned, suddenly interested.

"Well, uh, it sort of found us," Chris replied a bit anxiously.

"All right then," Derek said, his frustration suddenly replaced with eagerness as he stood from Gene's desk. He looked to his underlings and motioned for them to continue. "Keep looking for anything significant. I'll be back in a bit."

And with that, Derek Litton followed Chris out into the main offices, into the hall, and down to Lost and Found. The woman, Annie Cartwright, waited outside as if guarding the door. Derek paused outside the room to straighten his tie, then with a sniff, pushed the door open and led the way into the thick walled room of the Lost and Found.

"So, what do we have here…"

Derek faded off as he moved into view of the table where CID 'interviews' took place. There sat two men, one he did not recognize dressed tastefully in a suit and the other man in a deep red shirt that he recognized all too well. The color was appropriate considering how much blood he was said to have spilled.

"Sam Tyler?" Derek questioned, taking a nervous half step back from the murderer. "How did you-"

"We've all got questions, Litton." The voice of Gene Hunt came from behind him. It was so unexpected that Derek jumped away from the sound, eyes wide.

"Gene, I've- em- I've some things I need to discuss with you," Derek said in a very un-authoritative tone.

Gene Hunt circled around Derek so that he stood next to the table at which Sam and the other man sat. "I bet you do. But we've got somethin' too and trust me, Litton, our's are more important. First off, did you arrest anyone at Charles Dominic's flat?"

Litton stared at Gene in surprise. So he _had_ known about the sting! Somehow or other Gene had found out! "That, Gene-o, is none of your concern I'm afraid."

Gene looked about to attack Derek and he tensed, but they were both surprised when the man in the suit straightened angrily.

"It's my concern, actually. You had no right to enter my estate as you did. I doubt you had a warrant so that's breaking and entering, mate," growled the stranger.

Derek blinked. This man owned the estate? Then _this_ was Charles Dominic? How brilliant! How perfect! An escaped criminal- _two_ escaped criminals- had just fallen into his lap! This was rich. He would be a glorified in the news articles when he-

Gene stepped forward. "Well, Litton?"

Derek cast a glance behind him and was quite displeased to find Ray and Chris guarding the door. "I don't have to answer you. This is my investigation. All of it! You're the one that has no right-"

"You don't have any idea, do you?" Gene questioned with a pompous snort. "You have no idea what's going on here."

"He's not in on it," Tyler replied, speaking for the first time as he looked Derek over with those infuriatingly intelligent eyes of his.

"No," Gene agreed as he stood watching Derek judgingly. Derek didn't like that at all.

"I know that you're under suspicion of consorting with a murderer," Derek declared as he jabbed a finger in Sam Tyler's direction.

Gene scowled. "DI Tyler didn't kill anyone, Litton. That was a disguise."

"A deception," corrected Sam and as Derek turned to observe him, he noticed that the man's attention seemed to be split between the conversation and something that was apparently interesting on a shelf by the wall.

"Whatever," Gene replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He went undercover to find the real murderer and, Litton, we found him."

Derek looked far from convinced. Seeing this, Gene continued. "We went back ta Dominic's flat. You'll be annoyed ta hear that the guys you had staking out the place took my orders over yers," Gene replied smugly. He turned back to the table and tapped the manila folder that rested upon it. "Everything you need to know's in here, Litton."

Sam sat forward. "This is evidence Charles compiled against the real traitor in the force," he said. The former DI sounded particularly sane to Derek and that had the little questioning voice in the back of Derek's mind speaking up once again.

Derek pursed his lips, frowned at Sam, glowered at Gene, then picked up the folder. "No harm in looking, I suppose."

And then he opened the file. His face fell just a little as he saw the photo of Charles Dominic and another, taller man –a man he recognized all too well- down by the docks. He flipped quickly to another photo of that same man with Dominic and others, then another of the tall man with an angry expression and an accusing figure stabbing in Dominic's direction.

"What is this?" Litton questioned as he flipped through the photographs to pages of documentation about weapons smuggling, of locations and names- obviously aliases- of people the weapons were going to. "Do you realize what you're saying?"

Sam nodded, Dominic sat back down and attempted to mimic Sam's air of calm, and Gene crossed his arms.

"Do you?" Gene questioned.

Derek pulled out the first photograph and waved it. "You seem to be insinuating that Detective Superintendent Tannon… is purchasing weapons for some foreign conflict."

"Worse than that," said Dominic before anyone could think to stop him. "He's the bugger what had your coppers killed."

"What?" Derek questioned, color flushing his cheeks. "How dare you-"

"It's true, Litton," Gene replied. "Didn't you find it odd that Tannon had such an interest in this case when it aint even in his jurisdiction?"

"It's all coincidental," Litton replied slamming the folder down. "So what if he got involved with this case, got the RCS involved? So what if he's been seen with these criminals? It proves nothing. And this other stuff. These inventory papers and the like, this isn't signed by anyone. Tannon's name is nowhere."

"But his voice is," replied Sam. Charles hit 'play' on the second item on the table; a tape recorder.

Derek's eyes darkened as Tannon's voice filtered out through the speaker. DSI Tannon's voice started off quiet and calm. Then the voice of Charles Dominic entered the conversation. He sounded nervous, but stern. He said his people didn't want to be involved. Tannon told him they had no choice. The argument quickly got more heated. And then Charles laid it all out for them.

"_These kinds of weapons are very hard to ship without detection. And even if it weren't difficult, I will not take part in delivering weapons to that man. He's not just a rebel, he's a terrorist! He kills without discrimination. Young or old, guilty or innocent –" s_houted the voice of Charles Dominic.

"_I didn't hire you to think, Dominic. I hired you to get these weapons delivered so we can get paid!"_ shouted Tannon.

"That's enough," said Derek, defeated. The man he'd been working for was a traitor. Charles Dominic reached for the recorder and stopped the damning tape. Derek allowed himself a moment to be surprised and a little bruised before sucking it up and dealing with it. Straightening his tie, he looked to Gene. "All right. How are we going to take him down?"

With a difficulty Derek didn't understand, Sam pulled his eyes away from the side of the room where an unplugged radio sat by its lonesome to look at Derek straight on. The darkness he saw there was disconcerting and when Sam spoke it was in a low voice.

"I have an idea."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Derek took Gene aside so they could speak in private, something that was unheard of for haughty DCI. And he looked unsure of himself, which was even more uncommon. "This plan… is ridiculous!"

Gene smirked and made a show of sniffing the air. "Is that fear I smell, Litton? How dreadfully unmanly of you."

"Not fear. Just legitimate concern," Derek hissed. "Are you sure your DI is really thinking straight about this?"

Gene's face fell a little and the pair turned to look back through the shelves and across the room where Sam stood huddled over the radio, fiddling with the station knobs as if he could actually hear something despite the fact that the power was off.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Arthur was still in his chair, but he was slumped so far down now it was only the handcuffs that kept him in it. Lines of blood had dried on the side of his face where he had been struck. Dark bruises were slowly surfacing on his cheek and eye where other blows had landed. He spit a glob of blood to the floor as he watched his tall abuser stalk about the room. Arthur had been forcefully interrogated for what seemed like ages, but he'd maintained his position; he didn't know anything.

The tall man threw a book from a shelf in a rage, narrowly missing Arthur's head, and cursed violently. "I don't have time for this, boy," the tall man, he hissed.

"Well," Arthur began after taking a steadying breath. "I do, apparently. Only thing I had on the calendar was a date last night, which I obviously missed. She is not gonna be happy, that one."

Another strike to the midsection had the young man doubled forward, crying out in pain. Arthur liked to think he had a pretty decent pain threshold, but his tormentor had more weight and more muscle than he did and with each hit Arthur felt himself getting closer to his limit. Tannon bent closer, leaning much of his weight on Arthur's shoulder which he was sure had been dislocated earlier. Despite himself, the young man whimpered as a sharp bolt of pain wracked him.

Tannon gave no sign he noticed Arthur's reaction and continued to lean on him. "Well I hope you got what you wanted out of the girl, because more likely than not, you aren't coming out of this alive." It had been said with such sincerity Arthur felt his blood run cold and he shivered at the unnatural chill. "It would be much easier on the both of us if you just told me what Charles has and where it is."

Arthur didn't meet his captor's eyes, instead focusing intently on the blank wall across from him. "No."

Tannon straightened. "I've sent word of your predicament to several of your ring leader's little hideouts. I've suggested a simple exchange. Your life for the information."

Arthur tried to keep his expression neutral, but he was sure the surprise showed just a little. Tannon glared straight down into his face, but Arthur still refused to meet his gaze.

"Obviously there's been no word back," Tannon continued. "I guess we know where your life rates on his list."

Arthur stiffened, but said nothing. He knew the information Charles had was important. He knew that it was the only leverage their group had against this murderer. Charles had told them all that without it Tannon was likely to do away with them for not going along with his plans. But… But would Charles choose to save his own life over Arthur's? The good of the many outweighing the good of the one and all that?

"Just tell me what I want to know and I'll let you live," Tannon replied, moving to crouch before Arthur.

The dark haired man scowled. "If I knew anything, which I don't, and I were to tell you, you'd have no reason to keep me alive."

Tannon shook his head. "If you did happen to know anything and you did happen to tell me, I'd have no reason to kill you. I would have the physical evidence and there would be nothing to link me to anything illegal. You would be free."

Arthur's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He hadn't thought about that before and now the wheels turned in his mind. "But I'm a witness. I could identify you. …Not that I would necessarily, but you'd be worried about it."

Now the tall man smiled sagely. "I'm not worried about that. I am willing to offer you a deal, lad. I could still use someone to get my weapons across the border. That someone could be you. And you would then have free passage out of the country. You wouldn't have to worry about me ever again."

The young man searched Tannon's eyes. This man was willing to put him on a ship out of the country? Once he was out of England, Arthur could disappear. He wouldn't have to worry about pain like this anymore or of living in fear of being hunted down for his knowledge… Arthur had to admit, the idea was quite appealing considering the circumstances, but although this train of thought allowed him several pleasurable options, in his heart Arthur knew they would never happen. Tannon had killed three policemen –three of his own kind- just for getting close to discovering him. He would never let Arthur get out alive. And even if this weren't a trap, Arthur still had enough loyalty and sense left to his mind not to turn on his friend. So with a deep breath Arthur closed his tired eyes.

"No deal," he replied flatly.

Arthur kept his eyes closed so he didn't see Tannon's expression change from calm to glowering. "That's too bad. That was the only deal you were going to get where you might have lived. Your only choice now is how much more pain you want to endure before the end comes."

Tannon slipped his hand into the pants pocket of his uniform and pulled out a wicked looking switchblade. Arthur did his best to steel himself as Tannon leaned in with the intention of using it when a loud commotion from outside caught his attention. Arthur's eyes never left the shining knife edge as Tannon turned a curious look towards the door. Outside, several voices were talking at once. Two were likely Tannon's men, but there was also a muffled third. The voices were raised and Arthur felt hope within him reignite. His friends had found him! Immediately he began deciding how the escape would go. It was likely Dominic at the front. Although he was the one the guards were most likely to recognize, Dom had a way with words that could have people standing around arguing in circles for hours before coming to a decision on what to do about anything. Fischer would be sneaking around back, trying to find a back door or window to come in and take this Tannon bastard by surprise. It was all so clear in his mind that he was sure he saw the northman's shadow out of the corner of his eye.

Then the large metal door to the factory-like structure they were holed up in swung open and Arthur's spirits sank considerably. Instead of his friend – any of his friends actually- in marched the prat in the bowtie that had arrested him at the estate! He wasn't wearing that self satisfied grin this time now, even though he came bearing more goods this time in the form of the nutter, Sam Tyler. Tyler's hands were cuffed behind him and he was glaring at Tannon angrily. It wasn't that same insane anger he'd seen in the copper's eyes back in Dom's subterranean cell, but that did nothing to make Arthur feel any better. If Tyler was here then Dom hadn't been able to get the man to help present their evidence to the rest of the police. Or worse… Maybe they had shown the evidence to the police, but it hadn't been enough to outweigh the fact that it was coming from two crazy people… He'd _told_ Charles it had been a bad idea!

"DCI Litton?" Tannon questioned, taking the knife away from Arthur's throat. Arthur let out his breath quietly.

"Superintendent," greeted the man in the bowtie grimly. "This is Sam Tyler. I found him wandering the streets a few blocks from here."

"And you brought him here instead of the station?" Tannon asked. Arthur was sure to the unsuspecting bystander it would have simply come off as a question of curiosity, but to someone who knew this man was a traitor, it sounded more as if Tannon were suspicious. Though if it was of Litton or of Tyler, Arthur couldn't say.

"I figured here would be better. It's like you said about the boy," Litton replied with a nod in Arthur's direction. "Once they get him down at the station, there'll be questions and procedure and they'll feel safe. Won't get a damn thing outta them then. And I want to take Gene Hunt down."

Tannon's lithe form straightened and he folded the knife away neatly. "Litton, you are a wiser man than you are given credit for." The DSI moved away from Arthur, much to the young man's relief, to stand before mad Sam Tyler. "Well, Mr. Tyler, it's good to finally meet you, though I'm sorry it had to be under such circumstances."

Sam tugged out of Litton's hold and straightened, which did little to close the major height gap, and glowered threateningly up into Tannon's eyes. "As am I, sir."

"You had our men running all over looking for you," Tannon replied. Not visibly perturbed by Tyler's demeanor. "I heard you were quite a brilliant officer once, Detective Inspector."

Sam's lips pulled back in a sly smile. "I still am. Sir."

Something in the way Sam had said that made it clear it was a threat and despite Arthur's pain and exhaustion, he found himself intrigued. Tannon too seemed curious now as he studied the younger man.

"You admitted to killing three men," Tannon said, lifting an inquisitive brow.

Sam leaned closer to the towering man and Litton grabbed him to stop him from going too far. Sam gave no sign that he noticed, but smirked at Tannon knowingly. "I did, didn't I."

Tannon frowned, curiosity getting the better of him. "Why?" he asked.

"People usually confess for the obvious reason. Why is it you feel the need to ask?" Sam questioned back.

Arthur searched Tyler and Tannon, the last two questions ringing in his ears. He knew it was Tannon who'd really killed those men, but that Sam had confessed to it? He hadn't realized that. Had Dom known this? Had his boss not realized just how crazy Sam Tyler must be? With a man like that, there really hadn't been a chance in Hell that Dom's plan would work. Why did _this_ have to be the time Arthur was right about something?

"Where is Charles Dominic?" Tannon asked. Sam shrugged.

"What's in it for me?" he asked.

Tannon smiled and Arthur felt his hear sink. This mad cop had no loyalty to Dominic. He would give Dom up without a thought. Arthur wanted to shout at Sam, to tell him not to give up his friend, but he was afraid. Afraid that it would let Tannon know he'd been lying. Afraid it would bring the man's wrath down upon him again. Arthur didn't think he could take that kind of pain again. Not without hope of an ending to it. Arthur was afraid and he was ashamed of himself.

"Depending on what you can give me, Tyler, I might be able to work out a deal of some kind," Tannon replied.

Sam smiled too and nodded towards Litton. "You first. Get your lackey off my back. And the cuffs too."

"You're in a very precarious predicament, Tyler. You don't get to set the rules. Give me something and then, maybe, I'll give you something," Tannon countered firmly.

Sam eyed the taller man with total seriousness, then, only a moment later the look evaporated and his mood became almost flippant, the mood swing reminding Arthur of his boss. "I'm tired, Ben," Sam replied now with an utter lack of formality. "I'm tired of running. I'm tired of psych wards, and accusations, and radio messages, and corruption, and no mobile phones, and incompetent doctors… But most of all I am tired of 1973."

"What?" Tannon asked with a frown, confused with Sam's ridiculous babble. Honestly, so was Arthur.

"I know the truth now, Detective Superintendent. I know about the murders, the arms deals, and perhaps most importantly, I know what Charles Dominic knows," Sam replied. The tone had come full circle and though it was still light, the seriousness of his words gave them much more weight. "Now. Would you like to hear about it or would you like to continue to sit on yer ass while Charles Dominic roams free?"

Tannon stared hard at Sam Tyler and Tyler met the stare straight on through bloodshot eyes. After several moments, Tannon looked back to Litton and nodded towards the door. "Go. I'll hear what he has to say."

"Sir?" Litton questioned. "That's not exactly-"

"Go, Detective," Tannon ordered. "But leave the cuffs on him." He looked back to Sam. "Can't be too careful after all."

Litton looked to Sam and Sam spared him an unreadable glance, though his face had gone somewhat pale. Litton gave the DI a rough slap on the back, then turned for the door. Only after the door slammed shut leaving the three of them alone did Tannon look back at Sam.

"Well?" Tannon asked.

Sam took a breath as if to steady himself and began a leisurely pace about the room. "I have to admit, sir, I was surprised when I found out," Sam said, formalities returned.

"Found out what?" Tannon questioned, watching Sam's stroll carefully, the switchblade still gripped in his palm.

"You know what. The murders." Sam stopped and made a show of looking around as if to make sure they really were alone, then he whispered loudly. "You killed those officers."

Tannon said nothing. Arthur no longer knew what to make of this scene. Obviously Tyler was going to sell out Dominic, but his craziness seemed to have taken a strange turn. Instead of a psychotic rage, Sam's mood was now reminding Arthur more of Dom's whimsical and childlike madness.

Sam straightened. "Three police officers with almost no evidence leading back to you."

Still Tannon said nothing. It seemed that he wasn't sure where Sam was going with this either.

"Why did you do it, sir?" Sam asked, his left eye twitching a little as if it bothered him.

"Why did I kill them?" Tannon asked. "I would have thought it obvious."

"They were getting too close to the truth?" Sam asked.

"Of course they were."

Sam nodded and paused a moment to scrunch up his eyes as if they pained him. Tannon frowned. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothin'. Nothin's the matter with me. Let's stay on topic here," Sam replied, pacing and cracking his knuckles as he walked.

"Yes. And the topic is what Charles Dominic knows, not what I have to say about my involvement," Tannon replied.

"True, true. We all know about your involvement with arms deals and what not. Just tell me this first. Charles tells it like you want to start a war in Ireland. Why?"

Tannon scowled, flipping the switchblade open and shut idly. "Why does anyone want to start a war in Ireland? Their government is worse than unreliable and their people are fools."

Arthur bristled. His mother had been Irish! The young man was displeased to see that Sam was nodding in agreement.

"So they deserve to die," Sam concluded.

"No!" Tannon said scoldingly as he approached the insane DI. "You don't follow. Just because they are a people less fortunate than our own doesn't mean they deserve to be slaughtered like animals."

The tall man put a long arm around Sam's shoulders as if they'd been friends forever or as if explaining the way the world works to a child. "Sam, the weapons are being sent to radical factions, Irish people who know that Ireland should not be split in two but a coalesced into a single nation once again. People who understand that their government has become corrupt and their populous invalid. They will bring about a new beginning for the Irish people. One under the iron principles of Great Britain."

Sam shrugged out of Tannon's hold with a chuckle. "They're not the only ones with corruption in their midst. How is it that I got locked up while you got to stay out here?"

Frowning, Tannon flicked out his knifeblade behind his back where Sam couldn't see, but was in plain view of Arthur. "I'm confused, DI Tyler. Are you agreeing with me or not?"

Sam's eye twitched and he stretched his neck, twisting his head one way then the other. "Sir… I'm going to have to say I am not."

"But you'll give me the location of Charles and his evidence?" Tannon asked, clicking the blade into place.

Sam smiled and faced Tannon straight on. "Charles Dominic may be a criminal, but he's got a heart. Something you seem to lack."

Arthur's respect for Sam soared. Considering the negative level it was at before, it still wasn't a hell of a lot, but at least now he was crazy and loyal instead of just a crazy traitor.

"Last chance," Tannon said, seething. His knuckles were turning white as he gripped his weapon. "Tell me and I can make you disappear, Sam Tyler. I'll give you a new life away from this all of this. You won't be sent to prison or the asylum and you'll be far beyond the reach of British law. No one will hunt you again."

"I'm not going back to the asylum, sir," Sam replied confidently. "Nor am I going to jail."

Sam subtly twisted his arms and with a clink, from the cuffs, his arms fell free. Tannon stared in surprise as Sam held up the dangling metal links with a smile. "I'm placing you under arrest."

Tannon and Arthur gawked.

"How… did you-"

"This is my world, Detective Superintendent. I can do what I want with it," Sam replied with a sly smile. Then he proceeded to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt, revealing a wire and microphone taped to his chest. "And you just admitted your guilt to an officer of the law and it has been recorded in evidence. Add that to what we got from Charles and the case against you becomes solid. You, sir, are nicked."

Tannon stood stock still for several seconds, obviously wondering whether the man before him was very crazy or if he was in fact very clever. Arthur watched as Tannon tensed visibly.

"So you picked the cuff lock," Tannon replied. "I can still take away your evidence." And then he stepped forward and Arthur shouted a warning just before Tannon whipped his knife in Sam's direction. Sam jumped back dexterously and the knife only sliced through the air before him.

Sam dropped back into a fighting stance, the cuffs held out before him like a weapon as he began to officially read the killer his rights. "DSI Benjamin Tannon, I'm placing you under arrest for the murders of PCs Eames, Binder, and Sanderson as well as for participating in the illegal trafficking of arms to terrorists," Sam began.

"You are no longer an officer!" Tannon exclaimed, stepping forward again to slice with the knife. Again Sam backed away. "You have no authority-"

"You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later-"

"That's not how it goes!" Tannon exclaimed.

Outside there was the sound of heated argument, the loudest was recognizable as that of Gene Hunt. Sam took this moment to jump in again.

"Come peacefully. We have you surrounded."

"Go to Hell, Tyler," Tannon shouted back.

Sam met Tannon's icy gaze with one just as frightening. "We're already there."

With a snarl, Tannon darted forward again with the knife. This time, Sam stepped in blocking the knife with the chain of the handcuffs, then trapped the hand with his arm and slammed one cuff down over the older man's wrist. Before Sam could go for the other wrist, however, Tannon snapped a jab to Sam's face. While Sam fell backward, stunned, Tannon pulled his arm free making sure to slice into Sam's side in the process. The DI released Tannon with a howl of pain. Tannon looked like he might follow through with another strike, but a shout from behind surprised him.

"They're coming!" Arthur exclaimed desperately.

The warning was enough and Tannon paused to look towards the door, giving Sam an extra second to stumble away, blood seeping through his fingers to stain his already dark red shirt. No one had actually been coming when Arthur had shouted. It had just been the only thing he could think of that might distract Tannon from killing the DI. Now, however, the doors swung open and Litton side by side with Gene Hunt charged in with their guns held high. By the time they got their bearings, Tannon was already making a break for the side door.

Arthur watched as Sam pulled a black box from his person, yanked the wires from it, and placed it on the nearest shelf.

"Guv! Arthur's over here and so's the recording! I'm goin' after Tannon!" Sam shouted. He met Arthur's gaze briefly and gave him an assuring nod before taking off after the fleeing murderer.

How different those eyes had been from the ones that had glared at him through the rusting bars of Charles's cell. Something had changed in the man since then and as Arthur watched Sam push through the side door, Arthur sighed in exasperation. Charles had been right about him after all.

"Well, I guess crazy knows crazy," he muttered to himself.

"Dammit, Litton, yer lettin' 'em get away!"

Arthur turned to see the two other police officers charge right past him.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey! What about me?"

"Oh, shut it. Someone'll be around for you," Gene shouted back as he chased after the disappearing Sam Tyler.

Arthur watched them all go, slack jawed. They were just going to leave him cuffed to the chair? "Stupid coppers…" he grumbled.

And then a shadow appeared behind him, a rough hand clamping over his mouth to silence his scream.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Be Continued...

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: We didn't things from any of our main characters' perspectives this time around. Don't worry. We will. Let me know if you enjoyed this!


	11. Chapter X: Final Countdown

**Author's Note**: Well here it is! The end. Yep. The end. The Final Chapter has finally been posted. I'm sorry I got so slow towards the end and thank you to everyone who stayed with me through and through. Special thanks to CJaMes12, Zip, ItsAHydeThing, and HairMetal for their reviews! I hope everyone enjoys the final chapter. Let me know what you think! Otherwise I tend to think it didn't turn out well.

**Quick Recap:** After finally meeting up with Gene and crew, Sam went back into the fray. Posing as Litton's captive, Sam went into Tannon's hideout to capture the traitor, get a confession on tape, and rescue Arthur -Charles's right hand man. After revealing himself, Tannon took off and Sam followed with Gene and Litton not far behind. Arthur remains cuffed to his chair, watching helplessly as a shadow descends upon him... Charles remains in police custody and Sam still hears the voice of his Damage. Will Sam be able to overcome his insanity, or will it take over completely?

* * *

**CHAPTER 10: Final Countdown**

* * *

Normally Sam wouldn't have been as tired as he currently was. Normally he would've been better able to advance on the out of practice older man. As it was Sam hadn't slept in who knew how long, had barely eaten in about the same amount of time, and though the cut Tannon had given him wasn't serious, it definitely wasn't helping. Sam Tyler was working on pure adrenaline now and once that ran out there was no chance of catching his quarry. He could've sworn he'd heard Gene follow him, but considering the lack of physical fitness of his DCI, Sam knew he wouldn't be seeing him any time soon.

Sam charged stubbornly after the murderer, DSI Tannon as he made his way through the edge of the warehouse district and towards the commercial area. The tall policeman showed no signs of slowing.

'Figures,' Sam thought. 'I get stuck chasing the one other officer in Manchester that gives a damn about keeping in shape.'

Tannon glanced over his shoulder and seemed surprised to find Sam still following. Sam took little heart in that as Tannon took a quick left behind the nearest building and led him into what appeared to be an automobile graveyard. Though Sam'd only been seconds behind, by the time he turned the corner, Tannon was gone. Gasping for breath and taking a moment to press a hand to his bleeding wound, Sam looked desperately around the piles of abandoned cars. He didn't see anything.

Then suddenly the air was filled with the noise of static and the chatter of barely comprehensible voices. Sam's hands flew to his ears and he backed away until he'd pressed himself against the nearest pile of cars, yet as soon as his back touched the cold metal, the sounds silenced. Nearly overwhelmed with bewilderment and his heart pounding in his ears, Sam cautiously lowered his hands.

"You've lost him!"

Sam spun towards the voice but there was no one there. Then the voice spoke again, static breaking up the words.

"You- ooo've – losssst- 'm" This time Sam realized the voice was coming from the rusty car across from him. A rusty old car without a hood and the battery – and -entire engine block clearly missing.

Sam stood rooted in place. He needed to catch Tannon, not stand here listening to impossible radio chatter. Without the battery, the radio couldn't be on. Therefore, Sam reasoned, it was only his mind playing tricks on him again.

Only that.

"Sam, you're letting the murderer get away," said the voice on the broken radio.

"Exactly what I was thinking," Sam muttered, trying to let sarcasm overtake the fear that was seeping in from the very air around him. With a deep breath, he straightened and scanned the area. It took him a moment, but then he heard it; the sound of footsteps through the rubble. They were moving slowly, sneaking behind the junk piles in the yard. Sam followed suit, attempting to follow on tip-toe in silence, but ruining it when a large metal object that might once have been a car door slid from its precarious position and crashed into the ground.

The footsteps took off immediately and Sam followed with a curse. He caught sight of Tannon's dark uniform as he maneuvered through the wreckage of an old delivery vehicle. As he slid over the hood of a low car, Sam also noted a dock in the not-so-far distance. His mind raced. Tannon wasn't just trying to escape him, he was trying to get to a boat. Perhaps he knew he didn't have a chance in court now and was going to attempt to flee the country all together.

Static screamed from a nearby junk pile, and Sam shouted in surprise as the powerful sound almost physically shoved him to the side.

"Sam!" This time Sam realized that the voice in the static was his own. "Do you really think the word of two lunatics and some less than procedural voice recording is going to take down a Detective Superintendent?"

Sam paused his run, trying to keep track of Tannon and desperately attempting to ignore the garbled voice in the static. Never before had he thought he'd miss the little test card girl with her clown from his television, but as his own pitiless voice emerged time and again, following him from radio to radio, Sam realized he did whole-heartedly.

"Sam, this man is a murderer. He killed Eames. He killed Binder. He killed Sanderson. All good policemen, innocent men."

Sam picked a direction towards the docks and charged for it. His strength was waning faster now as the voice of his dark subconscious articulated his fears.

"Shut up," he whispered. The evidence would hold. The police had plenty now. Justice, real justice, lawful justice would prevail.

"Will it?" the telepathic voice asked, emerging from the radio of a discarded car stereo.

Just then, Sam spotted Tannon. The tall man was only a couple hundred yards away and he was watching Sam. In the DSI's dark eyes, Sam saw human exhaustion, but he also saw hatred and malevolence and racism. This man was a symbol of everything that Sam hated in a police officer. He was corrupt and self important, a liar and a murderer, and he abused the power that his position allotted him. Sam's anger began to burn anew and somewhere inside him he sensed an instability that his mind refused to fully grasp.

Then Sam saw Tannon's eyes widen even as his own dipped into an angry frown. With his final burst of adrenaline, Sam charged once more after Tannon. Tannon stood still in surprise for a moment, then stood his ground and whipped out his knife.

"Don't be a fool, Tyler!" Tannon shouted.

But Sam didn't stop. Tannon prepared to stab at him, but as Sam got close enough, red eyes blazing, Sam reached into a nearby pile of discarded car pieces, ripped up a random piece of garbage and threw it at the man. Although surprised, Tannon blocked it with ease, slapping it aside with this knife hand. That movement was all Sam had wanted however and as Tannon slapped the garbage away, Sam pulled up a hub cap from the pile and slammed the metal into Tannon's face. The tall man shouted in surprise and pain and staggered back a step. Knowing that the man was hardly out of the game yet, Sam swung the hub cap hard into Tannon's knife arm causing him to drop the weapon. Another scream erupted from the man and Sam felt a sense of pleasure sweep quickly through him. Unlike when he'd attacked Charles in the asylum and in his basement, the feeling felt far away. It was as if it was a part of something or someone else. Unfortunately it wasn't far enough away for him to be unaffected and Sam felt a small smile pull at his lips even as a voice of static reminded him from afar exactly why he shouldn't feel guilty.

"This man killed three men," came the wispy sound of his own voice.

Sam smashed the hub cap into Tannon's other arm which was swinging towards him offensively. Again Tannon cried out, stumbling back to gain some space. Sam kept on him, but wasn't quite quick enough.

Tannon, not blinded enough by pain to have lost his senses managed to lash out with a snap kick that sent Sam doubling over and lined him up for an upper cut to the midsection, knocking the wind right out of Sam. The hub cap fell from Sam's fingers and he tried to force enough oxygen into his lungs to make his body move, but for a moment he could only gasp in raggedly. In that instant Tannon slid an arm around Sam's neck and squeezed. Air or no air, Sam felt desperate instinct kick in and he found the energy to send a strike into the DSI's groin. Tannon grunted and fell away giving Sam a moment to take in a few hoarse gasps.

"He won't ever stop either. You saw what he did to that Arthur kid. If you let him get away with this, he'll just find someone else to destroy." The voice of static bore down on him again, the malice and hatred infectious in its tone.

As soon as the cool stinking air of the water front junkyard reached Sam's lungs, he turned on the DSI again. In his increasingly confusing anger, Sam wasn't sure what he meant to do exactly, but Tannon made the decision for him. Sam got his hands up just in time to deflect the man's sloppy haymaker and with an angry cry Sam found himself swinging one of his own.

"Dead men aside, it's his fault we got stuck in that drug induced therapy," the static crackled.

Sam threw a punch to Tannon's abdomen. Then another, this one going unblocked. Encouraged, Sam threw another punch to the man's face, stunning his opponent.

"Sam… It's his fault we're crazy," the voice hissed seriously.

Tannon still struggled, trying to grab at Sam's shirt even as Sam slid in close and knocked the taller man's legs out from under him with a leg sweep. Tannon did manage to get a hold of Sam's collar as he went down, but Sam just followed him, his eyes ablaze once again with hatred. He landed atop the man with a grunt, but Tannon got the worse of it. With the wind knocked out of him, the DSI was gasping for air himself now as Sam hesitated in his next move. At their side the radio crackled to life and the wispy, grainy version of Sam's voice came out in a conspiratorial whisper.

"We should just kill him right here."

Tannon had stopped squirming. One eye was swollen half closed from Sam's assault. Blood poured from his nose and a gash on his lip. His hands were held up in a feeble attempt to ward off any more blows, the hand cuffs still jingling from one wrist. It took Sam a moment to realize that the man had been talking, begging for Sam to stop, but he just hadn't heard him.

The former police officer, this murderer of men had been reduced to a quivering mess. It was a pathetic scene and Sam felt shame and disgust not just at Tannon but at himself creep into him again.

"Please," Tannon begged. "I'll give you anything you want, do anything. Just stop."

"Don't stop! End him!" the static shouted. "He's the source of this!"

"He's not the source!" Sam shouted back. Beneath him, Sam felt Tannon go rigidly still. Sam didn't care. "Killing him won't bring those men back."

"You want the truth, Sam Tyler? Those men weren't real! Tannon's not real either! This isn't a question of morals; this is whether or not you want to wake up," the static exclaimed. "You are lying in a hospital bed in 2006, in case you've forgotten. Everything here is a representation. Destroy the representation and you'll regain control."

Sam turned from the old broken car he'd been staring at from which the voice had been coming from, and looked down to the man beneath him. Tannon watched Sam with wide frightened eyes. Sam frowned. He didn't know whether it was fatigue or his own mental instability, but he was finding it very hard to think straight. What the voice said did seem to make sense…

But at the same time he was filled with self-doubt. Was killing a man in cold blood, whether he was an illusion or not, really the way back to sanity? If this was a representation, something that was taking place all in his head… then shouldn't he be holding true to his own beliefs? What would he become in the real world if in his mind he solved his problems by breaking his moral code?

And then… what if this was real?

There had always been that question. That nagging question. Ever since he'd woken up in that lot in a leather jacket and bell bottoms. Ever since he'd taken Annie's hand on that rooftop and felt the subtle detail of sand on her skin. If this place was real and he killed this man…

"What the hell are you waiting for?" the static voice growled. "You could set us free!"

"No! Killing never sets you free!' Sam exclaimed, standing up and shouting at the car radio, at the sky, at whoever or whatever was out there, and at his own madness. "And there is no 'us'! _You_ are what doesn't exist, what I need to overcome. I thought you'd disappeared back in Charles's cell, then again in the park, but nothing's ever that easy, is it."

The voice was silent for a moment. Then it spoke again. "So you won't kill him?"

Sam clenched his hands into determined fists. "No. I've been sayin' it all along: I'm not a killer."

Another pause and a thought passed through his mind that he might actually be able to reason his way back to sanity. The thought was only fleeting.

"Then if you will not kill him, Sam Tyler," the static voice crackled. "I will kill you."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was times like these that Chris found himself wishing policemen could always carry guns on them. Having a weapon on your hip definitely added to your sense of courage. And, Chris noted, your sense of righteousness. After having placed the two men who had been guarding the old warehouse for Tannon under arrest, Chris watched Ray order two PCs to take the traitors (perhaps unknowing traitors) down to the squad car with a gusto and confidence he didn't usually see. Chris pouted and turned his attention back to the warehouse. That wasn't to say that Ray wasn't brave without a gun. Ray and the Guv were two of the bravest people he'd ever known, with or without weapons. It was just something he noted now and as he did, the young officer realized the wisdom in not carrying guns all the time. It made sure that the police took the extra effort to end things peacefully.

Now though, facing down a crooked officer who had killed three officers and done who knew what else, Chris was glad for the extra dose of courage that the gun provided. With DSI Tannon's accomplices sent away, it was time to enter the warehouse where one of Charles Dominic's partners in crime was being held. The Guv and DCI Litton had gone in before them to sort the situation only a minute earlier and now it was up to Chris and Ray to bring up the rear. Carefully, and with his safety off, Chris followed Ray's lead as he stepped up to the doors. All sounded quiet inside.

"Too quiet," whispered Chris.

Ray was scowling. "I knew we shouldn't have hung back."

"It was the Guv's orders."

"Yeah an' before that it was Sam Tyler's idea. He an' the guv mighta been in on this whole undercover thing together, but somethin' aint right with him. I don't trust him."

Chris shrugged and tried to glance in through the milky window above him. "The boss usually knows what he's doin'."

"Don't get me started on that, Chris," Ray scolded, using his gun as a pointer finger. It made Chris nervous. "Ok, that's more than enough time for me. Let's get in there."

And before Chris could finish nodding his agreement, Ray was kicking open the doors and stepping inside. Chris followed quickly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising and adrenaline pumping through his veins. At first he couldn't see anything, but as they moved forward past a row of metal shelves, Chris was able to make out a large room, open except for the metal shelves that acted as minor blockades. His unease with the still silent room growing, Chris followed Ray past the shelves where the room opened up into a wide empty circle. Well, mostly empty. In its center there was a metal table with wires, a small black box, books, and an assortment of small metal instruments. Next to that was a chair in which sat a man in black slacks and a white colored shirt that was now stained with red. The figure faced away from them and Chris could see from there that he'd been cuffed to the chair, blood dripped from the fingers. Chris looked up to Ray who was motioning for Chris to circle around to the right and attend to the hostage.

Swallowing heavily, Chris did. His eyes darted around the warehouse over and over as he made his approach to the slumped figure, but besides the three of them, it seemed empty. After what seemed like an eternity, and from the frown on Ray's face it actually might have been, Chris made it to the hostage. The form didn't move. Chris lowered his gun as he got a look at the hostage's face more clearly. It was just a kid, no older than he was. The hostage, likely Dominic's friend Arthur, looked awful. Blood was everywhere and a bruise had swollen the left side of his face. As Chris stood there looking Arthur over, he couldn't help but put himself in this young man's shoes. What if a crooked cop had kidnapped _him_? Tortured _him_? Would he have held up? Would he have died?

With a shaking hand, Chris reached out to shake the man. Just before Chris touched him, Arthur blinked and straightened in his chair. The action was so unexpected that Chris stumbled backward over his feet to land in a heap on the cement floor with a yelp of surprise. Arthur, despite his injuries seemed amused by Chris's reaction and gave a tired and weary smirk.

"There you guys are. Took ya' long enough," Arthur replied. He jingled his cuffs. "Hows about getting' me out of these, eh?"

Ray scowled and Chris endeavored to get back some of his lost dignity as he stood up.

"Where's DSI Tannon an' the Guv?" Ray asked as he approached them.

Arthur took a deep breath and looked towards the back of the warehouse. "That Tyler bloke left his recorder on the table an' booked it after the tall guy. The other two went after him. All by meself now."

Ray moved to the table where he spotted the recorder and its protruding wires. He picked it up with a smile and looked to Chris. "We've got the bastard now, Chris."

Chris nodded with a smile of his own. Ray tossed Chris the tape then headed for the back. "You take this bugger back to the car an' keep him there. I'm goin' after the Guv. Make sure you keep your radio on this time, all right?"

Chris pouted. "I only left it off one time…" But Ray was already gone. Chris frowned, pocketed the recorder, and turned his attention back to Arthur, who'd been glancing off into one of the shadowy recess of the room. "All right. Let's get you out of here. You, um, you are under arrest though. You know… for, um… weapons trafficking and robbery an' harborin' a fugitive an' all."

Arthur sighed. "Yeah. I know…"

Chris pulled out his cuff key and unlocked Arthur from the chair. Arthur straightened and stretched. He didn't get too far before he pulled a muscle made tender from his torture session and wrapped his arms around his midsection in pain. Chris wisely kept his distance.

"You all right?" he asked.

Arthur nodded. "Yeah. Wonderful."

"Right… Well... I'm gonna have to put the handcuffs back on you to take you to the car," Chris said apologetically.

Arthur looked quickly at Chris, unease clear in his face. Chris could only shrug. "I can't just walk you out there without 'em," he said. "Somethin' might happen."

Arthur looked about to say something when suddenly a shadow emerged from the corners and stepped up behind Chris. "Somethin' like this?"

And before Chris could even start to spin around, the tall burly form of Fischer was swinging a fist into the side of Chris's face. The young officer went sprawling, eyes wide with shock and the gun he'd tried to pull flying across the floor out of everybody's immediate reach. Chris barely saw it go, so surprised was he that this figure had managed to come out of nowhere and get the drop on him. Fischer moved to attack Chris again, but Arthur grabbed his arm.

"That's enough, mate. He's one of the good ones," Arthur replied. "Nice timing by the way. I thought you were just gonna let him walk off with me! And after yer daring rescue and everything."

"He'll come after us," the Northman warned, not taking his eyes off of Chris who stayed right where he had fallen.

"Well, we'd better get goin' then, eh?" Arthur said, a small smile pulling at his bruised face. Fischer glanced at him, then rolled his eyes.

"Fine," Fischer sighed. He motioned Arthur to the back door then darted for the gun, hard eyes not leaving Chris's shocked ones even as he picked it up and slid it into his belt. Then with a tip of his fedora to Chris in mocking goodbye, Fischer turned and ran after the quickly departing Arthur.

It took another moment for Chris to come to his senses, his face throbbing where he'd been hit. He stood, staring at the door and it slowly dawned on him that he'd just let his prisoner escape. He reached quickly down for the radio that Ray told him to keep on only to realize that he'd left it out in front of the building when they'd cuffed the two men guarding the entrance. With a muttered self reprimand, he hurried out the door to give Ray the bad news.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam frowned at the junked car in confusion.

"You'll kill me? Yer just a voice in my head!" Sam exclaimed with a jabbing motion to his temple.

"A voice, yes. But I am more than _just_ a voice. I am your doubts and your fears, your anger and your rage," the static crackled, but more clearly than it had in the past. It was easier now for Sam to recognize his own tone and inflection in that garbled static.

That was intimidating, but Sam still managed to scoff at the bodiless voice. "So what are you goin' to do? Talk me to death?"

It was as soon as the words left his mouth that Sam knew something was wrong. Some sixth sense screamed at him and an instant later Sam heard movement from behind him. He spun around as fast as he could, but was only in time to see the flash of a navy blue uniform and glimpse the shine of the switch blade before Tannon stabbed it into his gut. Sam's eyes went wide, first in surprise and then remained so in agony as the truth of his situation washed over him, warm and red. Tannon grabbed him by the back of the head even as Sam grasped desperately at the other.

"You crazy son of a bitch," Tannon growled, ignoring Sam's attempt to pull out the knife. "The fact that some fool like you that talks to the air and that oaf, Hunt, managed to halt something I've been doing for years… For Years!" he repeated in a shout while giving his blade a twist. Sam screamed, the sharp sound echoing through the junkyard. Tannon showed no pity and only grabbed him more roughly. "It irks me, DI Tyler. You can die here with that victory at least, hm? But you'll also go with the knowledge that you failed to stop me."

Sam stared up into those hateful eyes, the weight of that knowledge dragging him down. It wasn't fair. He'd gone through so much for this mission. He'd tainted his reputation, made his friends think he was a murderer, he'd lost his memories, he'd even put his sanity on hold and now the bad guy was going to get away and his insanity, his 'Damage', was going to win.

…Except It would probably also lose because if Sam died, how did this Damage expect to survive? …What was Sam in this place? He'd always sort of thought that if this was a dream world, then he was whatever made Sam Tyler Sam Tyler. He was the consciousness… The soul… But was that required for life? If Sam was the consciousness of before his accident… would it be the psychopathic Damage that would wake up in 2006 if he died here at Tannon's hand?

Or was this real and if Sam died, his insanity would die with him?

…His mind was spinning. Stray confused thoughts rushed into his mind, each trying to get their turn in what Sam was now thinking were his last moments. He felt the pain in his abdomen where the intrusive metal blade still stuck and he felt his life blood leaking out of him. But he also felt a strange strength rising up. It wasn't normal strength and it wasn't powered by rage as it had with Gene at the park or with Charles in the cellar. It was the very last strength of a dying animal, that overwhelming instinct to survive, or to at least take down the one who had felled him.

Sam gripped Tannon's knife hand harder, nails digging into Tannon's skin roughly enough to draw blood. Only slightly surprised by the desperate move, Tannon let go of Sam's head and reached down to grab at Sam's clawing hands. With an exhausted smirk, Sam grabbed Tannon's free hand, now very close to his knife hand, and used the dangling handcuff to cuff the two hands together. Tannon jumped away in surprise, bloody knife tumbling to the ground as he tried unsuccessfully to pull the locked handcuffs off. Sam followed him forward and lashed out with a weak jab that had been meant for the face but went low and struck hard in the taller man'sneck. Tannon's eyes blazed as he choked, his cuffed hands going to his throat as he stumbled away. Sam remained wearily on his feet a moment, clutching his stomach.

"I told you," Sam wheezed. "You are under arrest."

Tannon stared incredulously at the rebellious dying man. Then he lunged forward, hands outstretched as if he meant to strangle the life out of Sam before the blood loss could have the same end result. It was about the same time that Tannon started forward that that sixth sense of Sam's piped up again, urging him to get out of the way. Sam didn't bother thinking about it. He was just too tired now. He was spent and no longer even had the energy to stand. So he gave in to gravity. Sam's legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the ground.

The instant after he hit the dirt, Sam heard the resounding boom of a revolver firing in the distance and much to his surprise, DSI Tannon jerked back. For a moment he stood there, staring at Sam with a look of astonishment on his face. And then blood began to pour from a hole that had appeared in his chest. Tannon and Sam looked at it, then at each other, and then Tannon stared off behind Sam and he too collapsed to the ground. Sam just lay sprawled where he was, wondering what the hell had just happened and wishing he had the strength to turn over and see where the shot had come from. Luckily a voice shouted his name and answered the question for him.

"Tyler!" came the grating shout of Gene Hunt. Sam became aware of the sound of footsteps and after a moment the owner of the voice came around and into view. "Tyler? Oh… bloody hell…"

Gene crouched before Sam, pulled out a radio and began shouting for an ambulance. Sam made a face despite himself. The last thing he wanted was to be subject to the 1970's medieval idea of medicine. He must have said some of it out loud because Gene put down the radio with a frown.

"Medieval? Look, Tyler, we've got good doctors 'round here. They'll patch you right up," Gene replied seriously, but even in Sam's current state he could see that Gene was worried.

As he had good reason to be, Sam thought as he felt the blood leaking through his fingers. He probably looked about as awful as he felt.

"I'm dying, guv. Forgive me if I don't have a lotta faith in 'modern' medicine," Sam said. He tried to say it lightly, he'd rather go out with a sense of humor than not after all, but he wasn't sure he'd pulled it off properly.

"Don't be such a girl, Sam," Gene scolded as he reached out to turn Sam onto his back then pressed his hands to the wound in an effort to stop the bleeding. Sam moaned and Gene scowled in a pale imitation of his usual grouchy tough-guy demeanor. "I've seen worse 'en this plenty of times…"

Sam took in a rasping breath. It was getting harder to stay awake, but he couldn't decide if it was the blood loss, the fact that he'd been exhausted before any of this happened, or some unfortunate combination. In any case, Sam rather thought he enjoyed the idea of sleep.

"Stay with me, Tyler. We nicked the baddie –killed him, I think. Focus on that."

"Good…"

"Hey!" Gene gave Sam a not-so-gentle slap and Sam's eyes fluttered open. "Litton's gone off to guide in the ambulance. It's all gonna be ok."

"Tired now is all. It's been a… busy few days… but…"

Gene waited then jabbed Sam in the shoulder to wake him. "But what?"

"…But I think… Justice over wrath… I think I won in the end, yeah? "

"Yeah," Gene replied softly. "Yeah, you won, Tyler. You keep yerself alive so you can claim yer reward, ey?"

Sam smiled. Gene had no idea what Sam was talking about, but it amused him how right Gene was. Sam needed to live to claim his prize against insanity, but he really wasn't sure staying awake was the way to go right now. Rest seemed like a much better idea…

"Just gonna rest… a bit, guv…" He could claim his 'prize' when he woke up

"Tyler?"

The voice seemed so far away. Which was good. Quiet was what he preferred right now.

"Sam!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The big white doors swung open and a man in scrubs stepped through. He was covered in blood, Gene noted. Except for his hands where his medical gloves had been. Gene watched the surgeon slide the mask off his face and didn't like the look that he saw. The surgeon wore a frown and his blue eyes flicked from Gene to a place behind him where Annie Cartwright sat worriedly.

"Well?" Gene asked.

The surgeon sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "We did the best we could. His wound was just too severe."

Gene heard Annie gasp, a sound that tore at him. He stared the surgeon down, trying not to let his anger and sadness get the better of him as he felt his heart sink down to his gut. He refused to let his mind extrapolate anything, instead wanting the doctor to spell it spell it out for him.

"What are you saying?" Gene questioned.

The surgeon pursed his lips. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hunt. Your man is dead."

Gene turned away. He'd been afraid of this and yet he really hadn't thought it possible. Sam Tyler might have been a scrawny little wuss with barely enough muscle on him to throw a proper right hook, but he was also a tough bastard. Mentally anyway. Gene never really thought Sam would let himself die. He'd always thought the man was too busy fighting for something.

Behind him, he met eyes with Annie and wished he hadn't. The woman sank down into one of the waiting chairs, tears welling up in her eyes as she tried desperately to hold back a sob. He'd always known there was something between those two, though honestly he didn't think it had gone too far. Still didn't. Tyler was too much of a gentleman. Love from afar… Soppy romantic drive and yet it had obviously been deep enough for Cartwright.

"The other one is in critical condition," the doctor continued. Gene hardly heard him. "On top of the major laceration, he was extremely dehydrated and found traces of a cocktail of as of yet unidentified stimulants and hallucinogens. We're keeping him under for now to give him a better chance to recover. Luckily whatever he was pierced with didn't do too much damage to any of his organs-"

"Wait-" Hunt interrupted, putting up a hand. "He was 'pierced' with a bullet. I shot 'im."

The surgeon shook his head. "No…this man was definitely stabbed. The officer was shot."

Gene stepped right up to the doctor with a serious frown. "So one in the uniform is dead? Sam Tyler's gonna be all right?"

The doctor nodded, obviously confused by Gene's change in demeanor. "Yes."

Gene broke out into a grin and slapped the doctor on the shoulder. "You saved the right man then," he replied.

The doctor blinked. "It really wasn't a matter of choice that the officer died…" he replied, offended that Gene might think he just allowed someone under his care to die.

"Don't matter," Gene said as he cast a nod towards Annie. Cartwright smiled back at him. After a moment of consideration, he spoke to the woman. "Cartwright, you stay here an' keep an eye on Tyler. I want someone around in case he wakes up and remembers anything important about our case."

That was only partly true, of course. He also thought Annie would appreciate being the one to be there for Sam. God, Gene thought with disgust, I must be goin' soft.

"Keep me informed," Gene ordered as he headed down the hall.

"Guv," Annie called. "What are you goin' to do?"

Gene glanced back at her, then at the surgeon who still wore a confused expression on his face, then back to the WPC. "I've got some loose ends to tie up."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam opened his eyes. He didn't move at first, just stared up at the ceiling trying to decide if it was white or some sort of grey… It was too dark to be certain, he decided. The only light in the room came from some sort of monitor out of view behind his head and he wasn't sure he had the energy to look for it. That he had any energy at all, Sam realized, was incredible. He wasn't dead.

Not yet.

"So, Sammy-boy, what year is it now?"

Sam went rigid at the sound of the voice. First he was positive that his 'Damage' had managed to survive as well and had returned to strike the final blow. When he realized that the voice was not his own, his next thought was that it was Tannon come to finish him off. But just before the shadow off to the side of his bed leaned forward, Sam recognized the voice.

"Charles?" Sam questioned incredulously. And indeed the madman's face did appear out of the dark with a smile. "What are you doin' here?"

Charles pouted. "Nice to see you too," he replied sarcastically. Then he broke into a grin. "Good to see you back with the living. You've been out for a good twelve hours."

Sam tried to push himself into a sitting position, but found that it just wasn't worth it and settled for adjusting the pillows beneath his head. The motion pulled painfully at the stitched up wound in his side and he hissed angrily and lay his arms back down. After sucking in a deep breath through his teeth he looked back to his visitor. "Good to be back. I think. What happened?"

"We won! That's what happened. The elusive DSI Tannon is dead and died knowing that his name would be forever sullied. We finally got my evidence to a good group of coppers thanks to you. And that little trick at the end when you got Tannon to admit his involvement on tape? Brilliant, mate! That just sealed it."

Sam wanted to share his Charles's excitement, but he just didn't feel it. After everything that he'd gone through to find Tannon and catch him… the man just up and died before he could be tried and sentenced. Charles sensed Sam's discontent and lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

Sam sighed. "It just feels… like he got off easy. Like he cheated," Sam replied.

Charles searched Sam's face a minute. "Yeah, I know at you mean. I woulda liked to see him locked behind bars in a little cell for the rest of his life so he could stew in his own juices with what he'd done," Charles told him softly. Then he proceeded to slap Sam a bit too roughly on the shoulder with a smirk. "Then again, death isn't exactly getting' off easy, is it. I hear that when you're dying you have to live through all your past mistakes and deal with all your guilt, but in slow motion. Time slows down or somethin', so to Tannon, he actually did live with the consequences of his actions for a nice long time. How's that for just desserts, eh?"

Sam nodded silently, thinking briefly about the car that had run him down before pulling himself back to his current situation. "Maybe you're right," Sam replied quietly.

"'Course I am! And either way, the world's better off without that psychopath," Charles replied seriously.

Again Sam nodded. He was feeling sleepy again after all this talking. Undoubtedly morphine and sedatives played a role as well. Charles noted this and stood up from his chair, straightening his waistcoat. "Well, I suppose I'll be off then." The thief clasped Sam's hand in a firm and grateful shake. "Thank you, Sam. For everything. You've restored my faith in the police of Manchester. Even so, I think me and mine will be off. You don't need to worry about us anymore."

Sam frowned, trying to keep himself awake as a half formed thought from earlier took shape now. "Wait… Charles, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in custody."

Charles released Sam's hand and with a sly smile headed for the door. "Yeah… about that… Tell Mr. Hunt I'm sorry, but I really couldn't stay until the end of this. 'Places to be' and all that. And I am really not fond of prison," Charles replied, making a face. Sam tried to push himself up again.

"You can't just run from the police," Sam declared.

Charles smirked. "A proper copper through and through, eh? I'd expect nothin' less." Charles pulled open the door and gave Sam a little salute. "Cheers, Sammy."

"Hey!" Sam called, his voice rasping, but Charles ignored him, stepping out into the light streaming in from the hall and closing the door behind him. "Hey!" Sam shouted again, but his voice only cracked and sent Sam into a painful coughing fit that felt like he was tearing open his newly stitched knife wound with every cough. Sam tried to reach for the button to summon the nurses, but couldn't find it. He looked to the bed stand beside him for a phone, but it was out of reach. He tried shouting again, but again, his voice was too weak to go too far.

Finally Sam just collapsed, his head falling back into the pillows, his energy expended. He closed his eyes. Charles was going to get away, he realized. It took him another moment to recognize that he wasn't too broken up about it. Perhaps Charles would see the error of his ways…

Perhaps not. But no one could say Sam hadn't tried to get help. And with that thought Sam let himself drift off to sleep.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Gene Hunt looked furious. "And you just LET Charles Dominic escape?" the DCI exclaimed.

"Me? I was half dead! I tried to stop him, but I was on sedatives and painkillers. What's yer excuse, guv?" Sam let Annie help him pull on his leather jacket as they made their way to the hospital's lobby. The motion pulled painfully at his stitches. The doctor had wanted Sam to stay for another day, but he had insisted he could do just as much resting up at home.

Gene fumed. "This is a load of bollocks," he grumbled, shoving his hands into his jacket in search of his flask. "Two arrests and two escapes. When Litton finds out he'll have a field day."

Sam pushed open the hospital door, holding it open for Annie and ending up holding it for Gene as well. "Wait, _two_ escapes?" he questioned.

When Gene only scowled, he looked to Annie who gave a little shrug. "Charles's accomplice escaped back at the warehouse."

"Damn the man!" Gene exclaimed, drawing a few concerned stares from an elderly couple on the sidewalk.

"Arthur escaped?" Sam asked.

"Chris let 'imself be ambushed or some nonsense," Gene grumbled. Sam nodded with a chuckle.

"On the other hand, guv, we did accomplish all we set out to accomplish. We found the traitor in the force and solved the murders of our three policemen. I'd call that results," Sam replied, pausing to adjust his borrowed and now bloody shirt over his bandages. He couldn't wait to get home and actually put on one of his own shirts. A surprising thought considering how not fond of the style he'd been when he'd first arrived.

On his right, Gene was nodding thoughtfully. "Yeah. And the Chief Super's not gonna care much for two rubbish thieves when he hear's about everythin' else…" Gene reasoned. Then a sinister undertone crept into his voice. "And Litton… He was workin' with the baddie! It'll be some time before he lives that one down!"

Sam rolled his eyes, letting Annie lead the way to the parking lot. "It's not like he knew, guv."

"Doesn't matter. I am usin' this against him forever!"

"Didn't he help us catch Tannon?" Sam pressed.

Gene turned to his DI with a glare. "Whose side are you one, Tyler?"

Sam laughed. "We're all on the same side!"

Gene shook his head. "Obviously you hit yerself on the head durin' yer little fight so I'll let that one go."

Sam shook his head incredulously. "How generous." He sighed. "There's something I don't get about all this though."

"Oh? Something the boy wonder doesn't get?"

"How did Tannon know where and when to break into the asylum? And he had a team sent in with guns. Who were they?"

Now it was Gene's turn to laugh. "Well, while you were out cold, Sleeping Beauty, some of us were doin' our jobs."

"And?" Sam prodded when Gene paused for dramatic effect.

"Well, Tannon had a man on the inside. Let 'im know where Dominic would be and when."

Sam scowled, thinking of the 'therapy' sessions he could barely remember with his snobby doctor. "And I think I know who it was…"

Gene glanced at Sam then chuckled. "Yeah. And you'd be wrong."

"You don't know who I was thinkin' about."

"I do 'cause I met 'im. And it aint yer good fer nothin' shrink, Loytta. It was one of Loytta's assistants. Some up-and-coming prat that felt under-appreciated. Tannon bribed him."

"Annnd we have proof of this, I hope."

Gene grinned. "Trust the Gene Genie."

Sam scowled. "You don't make it easy," he muttered.

"I went back to the loony bin with Chris and Ray," Gene elaborated with a glare at his subordinate. "All we had to do was mention that Tannon had been caught and imply that we knew someone who worked there was responsible. Loytta practically handed his man to us then and there."

"An' you just believed him?" Sam asked doubtfully.

"'Course not! Thought it might be Loytta just tryin' to cover his own arse-"

"Figures-"

"But when we did a search of their offices, well… Let's just say that Loytta's assistant wasn't as good at keepin' he tracks covered as Tannon. And when we confronted him about it, the sissy pretty much broke down and confessed at my boots!" Gene chuckled, obviously quite proud of himself. "As for the guys with the guns, that was just hired muscle. We haven't nicked 'em yet, but Williams'll tell us what he knows soon enough." Gene paused. "So I guess we do have at least one arrest that isn't escaped or dead."

"Williams?"

"Loytta's assistant," Gene answered.

"Ah. Well…" Sam frowned and his tone darkened. "Loytta should be put away too. What he does to his patients… I doubt it's legal."

Gene snorted. "They're just good fer nuthin' low life criminals. What's it matter?"

"What they did to me was all right to you?"

"Well next time we'll warn the doctors that yer undercover then. …And thereby ruin the fact yer undercover!" Gene exclaimed.

"That's not the point. People shouldn't be treated like that!" Sam exclaimed.

Gene scoffed. "What _I _don't agree with," he began after a second. "Is that he's got those drugs at all. First he uses 'em illegally on his patients. And then he'll start sellin' 'em to the general populace. Don't need a buncha nutters like you runnin' around, tryin' to shoot their friends and loosin' their minds."

Sam frowned and looked away. When he'd woken up that morning, his doctor had told him about the hallucinogenic compounds they'd found in his system. They told him that the worst thing he'd come away with from his whole undercover ordeal would be a scar from the wound on his stomach and probably another from the one on his arm. Any symptoms he'd had from the drugs should be gone now, they'd said, and they couldn't find any permanent damage from them. The voices of his 2006 doctors confirmed this soon after his 1973 doctor took his leave of Sam. What Sam believed more than the doctors of either time was the fact that he had not seen nor heard from his Damage since he'd woken up. That raging voice and all internal turmoil that it had brought with it were gone.

"We'll deal with Loytta after we finish with Williams, all right, Dorothy? We'll have this thing wrapped up by the end of the day."

Sam chuckled, but let Gene have his moment. The man would have a ton of paperwork to do before this was truly done. A decent amount of which Gene would likely task Sam with completing, now that he thought about it…

"Litton!" Gene's shout would've been heard on the moon. Startled, Sam and Annie winced at the booming sound, but it had the desired effect of catching the attention of DCI Litton who was halfway across the parking lot and was making his way towards his car from a different exit. "What'd ya' get a sliver in the junkyard? Need a doctor to kiss it an' make it better?"

Litton sneered and Gene looked back to Sam and Annie. "You two head for the car. I'll be there in a minute."

Sam watched Gene go. "Play nice, guv," he called as Gene stalked off. Sam and Annie watched him go for a moment, then turned to face each other.

"So," Sam began with a smile. "I hear you got into some trouble for believing I wasn't a murderer."

Annie blushed and gave a little shrug. "You may be many things, Sam, but a murderer isn't one of them."

"Thank you," Sam replied whole-heartedly. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

"It's all right. It was for a good reason," she told him.

"Maybe. But I'm still sorry," Sam said. He looked away as an uneasy feeling washed over him. "After a while in there… though I guess it really wasn't that long… but it seemed like a very long time… After a while, I actually started to wonder whether I was guilty or not myself."

Annie grasped his arm encouragingly and for a moment their eyes met. Sam thought he could gaze into those caring eyes for a good while longer, but, embarrassed, Annie looked away first.

"Come on," she urged, slipping her arm in his with a smile and guiding him again towards the car. "We should get going."

Sam sighed, a content sound. He still couldn't say whether this place, this medieval world with its politically incorrect policemen, its Stone Age forensics, and its horrid fashion sense was real, but as he walked through the parking lot with Annie on his arm, the sound of Gene's shout-out with Litton echoing in his ears and the enjoying the knowledge that there was in fact honor among thieves, Sam found himself deciding it wouldn't be a completely horrible world to reside in.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-The End-

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Cheers, guys! You made it to the end! ;p Sorry, I know that was a long chapter, but I didn't like the idea of splitting it. Let me know what you thought. Decent? Horrible? Reviews and critiques are always welcome. But flames will be quickly extinguished. ^_^


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